


Nation

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: Sundering [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Nation will fight against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.</em> - Luke 21:10</p><p>As the Seven Kingdoms becomes seven kingdoms, some are surprised by just how heavy a burden a crown proves to be, even before they are called upon to wear one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Concerns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tywinning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tywinning/gifts), [theMightyPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/gifts), [PanBoleyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/gifts).



> For Lauren, because it was her prompt that inspired this.
> 
> For Laura and Kate, because they put up with me babbling incoherently at them at 5AM GMT while trying to get this done on time.

Rickon nursed bruised knuckles, sucking at them until the sting abated a little.

"I will not stand by and allow  _fools_ to speak of you in that manner," he said. "I am Lord of Winterfell, you my sister, and they  _will_ respect you and they  _will_ accept your word as truth."

Sansa did not even open her eyes - she merely shook her head and waved to the seat opposite hers, on the other side of the fire. 

"Regardless of any disrespect shown to me, my lord, you cannot afford to alienate your bannermen over every slight to my person. I am but your sister, Rickon, and I offer nothing to you but advice and counsel that you must insist comes from any source but me. You  _know_ how the likes of Lord Karstark regard me, Rickon."

Rickon loathed Harrion Karstark, who bellowed and fought and thought himself more important to the North than he truly was - Rickon had considered more than once removing Lord Harrion from the Karhold and installing Lord and Lady Thenn, but Sansa and Lord Manderly both had advised against such a course.

Arya had agreed with him, because she felt that Lady Alys was more to be trusted than her brother, because Lord Karstark had made an offer for her hand and had caused a fuss when he was refused, because he spoke disrespectfully to and about Sansa at every opportunity as a means of undermining her authority. 

Slander meant little to Rickon personally - he had spent so long among the Free Folk, on Skagos and then in Winterfell, during and after the war, when the wildlings had helped reclaim and rebuild Winterfell, that he did not see why he ought to care for such things as a woman's maidenhead or her skill with a needle and thread for anything beyond practical purposes, and he certainly didn't care that some spoke of him as a cannibal, a demon, a beast from some strange hell, in fact he rather liked it - but it meant a great deal to Sansa, and he knew that even after all these long years of living with the backhanded compliments and insults, whispered and screamed alike, every ill word spoken against her still caused her pain.

Rickon did not like to see his sisters in pain of any sort.

"You  _must not_ strike out at them in this manner, Rickon," Sansa said, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "We have the support of the  _majority_ of the bannermen, but not all - it is no secret that prior to the revelation of your survival, more than one person thought to support Lord Karstark's claim to Winterfell if only to oust the Boltons."

That was unfortunately true - Lord Wyman had shown Rickon letters his informants had gathered, detailing innumerable petty plots that would have further destabilised the North. Among them had been letters supposedly from Lord Karstark (and from his uncle, too) attempting to gain support for a coup, and that alone would have been enough to convince Rickon to hate the man even if he were not so damned despicable.

"I am touched that you think me worthy of such a strong reaction," she said softly, leaning over and taking his hands, "but please, think of the North, Rickon - it is more important than I am, little brother."

Rickon scoffed at that - the North would stand whether under his rule or Harrion Karstark's or whoever damn else's, but Sansa's honour and wellbeing was his responsibility entirely and he took it seriously.

Rickon did not remember his father or mother or his eldest brother or even Bran all that well, but Jon had warned him that as Lord Stark, Sansa and Arya were  _his_ to look after.

"Lord Karstark," he said, "impugnes your honour every time he opens his mouth in your presence - the next time he speaks so ill of you is the last time he has a tongue to form his words."

"You are not one of the Free Folk to punish transgressions as you see fit, Rickon!" Sansa snapped, slapping his hands and scowling. "Lord Karstark has not done anything punishable by law, so you cannot punish him! I have  _told_ you this!"

"Why  _not?"_ he demanded, launching to his feet and standing over her. "I am Lord of Winterfell, he is my subject-"

"And you taking such offence to his slander only lends creedence to it!" Sansa shouted. "Enough already believe that Lord Tyrion took his rights during our marriage, or that Lord Baelish dishonoured me during my time in the Eyrie, or they believe Harry  _damned_ Hardyng's lies that I gave him my maidenhead! I am having difficulties enough in finding a suitable husband without you behaving as though I  _need_ my honour defended, Rickon!"

He stepped back, stunned by her anger, and stood blinking at her without speaking for a long moment.

"I am sorry to have caused you injury, sister," he said, unsure how to proceed in the face of Sansa behaving like Arya. Sansa  _never_ lost her temper. It was... Disconcerting was the word Lord Manderly would have used, Rickon thought. "I thought I was doing you a service."

Sansa buried her face in her hands again, and Rickon had a horrible feeling it was to hide tears from him. He hated to upset Sansa or anger Arya, mostly because he never knew what to do. Osha had never gotten upset this way, and if she lost her temper she was like to slap him across the back of the head, not close it up inside herself and vent it in other, strange ways.

"I  _am_ sorry, Sansa," he insisted, "but I cannot allow for you to be spoken of in such a way."

It wasn't until he was in his own rooms that he realised Sansa had said that she was looking for a husband. She'd never mentioned anything about marriage to  _him._

* * *

"Are you quite certain that this is a good idea, Willas?" Garlan asked at last - he'd held his tongue for near a moon's turn now, since Willas had first mentioned this new consideration of his, but now that Willas had set his offer out in writing, he could be silent no longer. "There's bound to be someone else, someone more suitable. There  _must_ be."

"No man of the Reach will allow a daughter or sister to wed me," Willas said, pressing his seal into the deep green wax and glancing up at Garlan. "They think my lack of bastards is proof of my impotence, and doubtless word of that has spread beyond our borders. I don't much care if Sansa Stark has lain with a hundred men, little brother - she's the best possible choice if only because if I wed her, there'll be a Tully in Highgarden and we'll be reasonably safe against them."

That was true, Garlan had to concede - Lord Tully had a nephew as Lord of Winterfell and another as Lord of the Eyrie, a formidable alliance that had completely reshaped the realm once before. Willas marrying Edmure Tully's niece would bring them closer into the fold, even though it was unlikely they would truly be trusted after siding with the Lannisters for so long during the war.

"Besides," Willas went on, looking back down at the papers on his desk, "she's reputed to be a great beauty, and regardless of what certain reports from the North would have us believe, I don't doubt that she is  _emminently_ capable - she's ruled in her brother's stead for years, from what I can discern. I'm sure she'll be a perfectly suitable wife for me, even if she's had Tyrion Lannister and Petyr Baelish and that fool from the Vale all at the same time."

"She may refuse simply because of who you are," Garlan warned. "She is not likely to forget that we all but abandoned her the moment she was wed to the Imp, or that..."

"Or that she was implicated in Joffrey Baratheon's murder?" Willas said mildly, signing his name to something with a flourish and setting it aside. "I don't honestly think she's in any position to refuse an offer like this, Garlan, regardless of what doubts she may have - and besides, there are no more Lannisters for us to kill, unless the King does decide to go to war against the Westerlands. She's quite safe from any more charges of regicide, I assure you."

The Westerlands had rallied around the last surviving members of Tywin Lannister's line in the Kingslayer and little Tommen, first plotting to set the bastard boy back on the Iron Throne and then seceding from the realm in order to install the Kingslayer as King of the Rock, in direct defiance to the King (and directly insulting Lady Baratheon, soon to be Queen). There was still too much instability in the realm yet for the King to act against them, and the Ironborn had taken advantage of that to declare Balon Greyjoy's daughter their queen.

She, at least, was reasonable, and Willas had been able to secretly treat with her to guarantee at least temporary peace for the Reach's shores. Garlan wondered if the Starks and the Tullys had done the same, because the only attacks they had heard of were in the Westerlands.

Jaime Lannister had proved less reasonable, which did not surprise Garlan in the least - if nothing else, the Kingslayer had little training in statecraft, having spent most of his life in the Kingsguard...

"You mean to hem the Lannisters in," Garlan said. "You mean to formalise an alliance with the Starks and the Tullys to ensure the Lannisters are trapped in the Westerlands. Gods be good, Willas, this is your  _marriage,_ the woman who will be mother of your  _children!_ Think about it with a touch more... More humanity!"

Willas looked up, one eyebrow crooked sardonically.

"Not all of us can marry for  _love,_ Garlan," he said quietly. "That is the privilege of the few. I am doing my utmost to ensure the security of the Reach, and if that means marriage to a woman who might hate me, well, I will marry a woman who might hate me and do my best to treat her well."

"Willas..."

"Enough, Garlan," Willas said, reaching for his crutches and lifting himself to his feet. "I have already sent preliminary messages to Lord Stark, which have been well received. It is done." He smiled a little, nudging his shoulder to Garlan's. "Mother will be pleased at the chance for more grandchildren."

 

* * *

 

"You wrote to Jon before you told me? Rickon, Jon has  _no_ say in who I marry!"

Arya set her boots on the edge of Rickon's desk and settled back to watch. It was always entertaining when Sansa fought with Rickon and Lord Manderly, particularly when she was absolutely in the right, as she was now. 

"I needed his advice!" Rickon said, holding his hands out and backing away from Sansa, looking panicked. Arya hid her laughter by taking a bite from her apple, trying very hard not to smile at Lord Manderly, who looked astounded by Sansa's anger.

"Jon has  _no standing_ in the realm proper!" Sansa shouted, slamming her hands flat to Rickon's chest and shoving him back until he hit the wall. "Jon is a man of the Night's Watch! He is  _Lord Commander_ of the Night's Watch! He has no more say in who I wed than Uncle Benjen did!  _I_ as your  _regent_ have  _final_ say in who I wed! I am the one who will have to spend my life with whatever man is chosen to be my husband, not  _you!"_

"Sansa, please, listen to me-"

"No, Rickon! Have you denied other requests for my hand because of Jon's advice? Would you have outright denied Lord Tyrell's offer had he not been more persistant than any other suitor before him? Had he not tendered a formal request for my hand, would you have turned him away without even mentioning to me that there is a man who is willing to marry me without mention of absurd compensation for my being  _ruined_ in the eyes of the realm?!"

"He has your best interests at heart-"

 _"They are not his to have!"_ she shrieked, stamping her foot. "They are not Jon's or yours or Lord Manderly's, they are  _my_ interests and therefore  _my_ concern!"

"Sansa-"

"Give me the letter!" she demanded. "Lord Tyrell has asked for my hand in marriage, not yours, my  _lord,_ I would see his terms."

Rickon opened his mouth to protest, but Arya had had her fun.

"Sansa," she called, leaning forward and lifting the letter from the desk. "Here, it's here - calm yourself a little and read what our lord of flowers has to say."

Sansa stepped away from Rickon, glaring sheer unadulterated fury such as Arya hadn't seen since... Probably when Harrion Karstark had made such noise about Arya refusing his proposal.

She sat on the edge of the desk so she could read over Sansa's shoulder.

"He believes me," Sansa breathed, looking so surprised that Arya thought she might weep. "He  _believes_ me... Or at least gives a very good impression of it."

Arya gripped Sansa's elbow, squeezing in encouragement - it had shocked her to discover that Sansa, after everything, truly was a maid still, just as it had relieved Sansa to learn that Arya was not only by her own choice - and skimming down across the rest of the letter.

"A formal alliance with Rickon, Lord Tully and Lord Arryn," Arya noted. "Does he believe any of us have the authority to make such a decision on their behalf?"

"Sweetrobin will agree to it if I ask it of him," Sansa admitted, tucking her hair behind her ear and reading through the letter slower than Arya had. "Although he will not like it if I finally refuse Harry's suit outright."

Arya knew better than anyone else why Sansa was so reluctant to wed Harry Hardyng, especially considering how desperately she wanted to marry _someone_ \- the way he spoke of her, the lies he told about bedding her during her time in the Vale, intimating that one of his bastards might even be hers and that Littlefinger had helped her conceal a pregnancy - and so she said nothing, motioning for Rickon to keep quiet. 

"And I think that our uncle will see the wisdom of it," Sansa went on. "The Riverlands borders the Reach, and they both border the Westerlands - they would be good allies to one another against the Lannisters, I think, and both have ample reason to  _hate_ the Lannisters, after all."

Arya had been near enough to the city to see King's Landing go up in flames, when Cersei Lannister had given orders for all the wildfire hidden under the city to be ignited - although close enough meant anywhere within miles and miles, because the whole city had burned for days and days, 

 

* * *

 

"I imagine she is even more beautiful now than when last I saw her," Alerie said cautiously, still not entirely certain what had pushed Willas to pursue this course. He had never shown any great interest in marrying before, and this sudden, intense desire to marry Sansa Stark, of all people, had left her wrong-footed.

She wondered how much of it was the loneliness, or practicality, and both saddened her. She hated to see him alone, of course she did, but she did not want to rush him into a marriage simply for the sake of it. She knew he'd been worrying about the succession since Garlan and Leonette had had their second girl, because he couldn't very well leave Highgarden to a girl any more than he could order Garlan to give him Alyn.

"I'm more interested in asserting whether or not these reports about her intelligence are true," Willas said, not looking up from his work. "I look enough like you and father that our children likely won't be ugly, Mother, and even if they are, at least they'll be clever."

"Willas," she said, catching his chin and turning his face up. "Sweet boy, think about this."  
"Garlan has already warned me that Lady Sansa might hate me," he said, smiling a bitter little smile that she recognised from his father. "I am fully aware that my marriage in highly unlikely to be as happy as yours or his, Mother."

He had been like this - hard, sharp - since word had come of the fires in King's Landing, of Mace and Margaery and Olenna's deaths. Garlan had become even more protective, forcing himself to be even more cheerful and outoing to balance Willas' quietude and introversion, but it had not been enough to lift whatever pall it was that lingered over Willas.

He turned back to his work - letters to Asha Greyjoy, to Doran Martell, to Shireen Baratheon and Aegon Targaryen, to half a dozen of his bannermen, always planning and plotting and endeavouring to strengthen the Reach - and shook his head. He looked so like Mace it made her heart ache, especially bent over his papers like that, and she couldn't help but run her fingers through his hair.

"I cannot imagine a woman hating you as her husband," she encouraged. "Be optimistic, sweetling, she was a sweet girl when I knew her, and that sort of sweetness is not easily gotten rid of."

He looked up just long enough to smile - the smile he and Garlan had always had in common, sweet and sincere.

"Mother," he said, "I am near thirty-five years of age. I can look after myself."

"You could be fifty-five and I would still worry," she told him. "You are my son, Willas. It is my purpose as your mother to fret over your well-being."  
And what cause he had given her to fret! First that mess with the Rowan girl while he was squiring in Oldtown, then his leg, and being tangled up with the Viper, and then... Then this sharpness. This... Removal. He spent all of his time so calm, and it worried her.

He gave her another of those razor-edged smiles, and she sighed and took her leave. He had set his mind on marrying the Stark girl, for whatever reason, and there would be no deterring him unless Lady Sansa proved to be a complete fool or his hoped-for alliance with the Starks and Tullys and Arryns fell through.

 

* * *

 

Sansa's hand whipped white-hot across his face when Jon stepped forward to greet her.

"How dare you interfere in my affairs?" she hissed, and then she was swirling away, Rickon and Arya watching her as she went.  
"You told her about asking advice on her suitors?" Jon guessed, working his jaw. "Rickon."  
"I didn't have much choice," Rickon said mullishly. "She saw a letter, and she is my regent until I come of age, it's her right to read my correspondence."

"Damn it all, Rickon, you ought to have known how she'd react to something like this," Jon sighed, looking to Arya for support. "How angry was she?"

"Angry enough to insist we invite Lord Tyrell to visit," Arya said grimly, waving for him to follow her inside. "She is rightfully displeased with you both - what were you thinking, telling Rickon to refuse every eligible man in Westeros?"

"Half the men asking for her hand are traitors-"

"Half the people of Westeros are traitors," Arya scolded him, thumping his arm. She had grown into herself these past few years, as opposite to Sansa as possible withouth, in Jon's opinon, being any less pretty, but she was still small, only just to his shoulder - Sansa stood a few inches taller than him, which she had always seemed to find amusing. "We are traitors, Jon, it is not a good enough reason to refuse a suit for Sansa's hand."

It was, to Jon's mind - there had been offers from all sorts of sources, men who thought to take advantage of Rickon's youth and the damage done to Sansa's reputation, men who were nowhere near worthy of his sister but who thought to have her anyways, and at least he had a solid reason to advise Rickon to refuse traitors.

"After all she told us of the Tyrells," Jon said, uneasy at the thought of Sansa marrying into the family that had abandoned her when she most needed help. "Is she certain that this is wise?"

"She wants to meet him," Arya said. "That does not mean that she wants to wed him the moment he arrives."

"I worry she'll wed him during this visit just to spite me," Rickon admitted. "She's right, you know - we should have discussed this all with her. She's earned that much, at least."

Sansa had indeed earned the right to manage her own affairs, that much Jon couldn't deny - she'd managed half the realm for years, the Vale first, then the North, even the Riverlands for a time before her uncle had been restored as Lord Paramount. All three together, for about a year, in fact, and upon remembering that Jon couldn't help but feel guilty for sneaking behind her back as though she were a silly girl who didn't know what was best for herself.

 

* * *

 

"My gods," he said. "It's _huge_."

  
"And here I thought it was supposed to be half a ruin since the war," Humfrey agreed, reining in alongside Willas and surveying Winterfell from the last rise before the castle itself. "If your bride-to-be is the one who's arranged for the restoration, well, it's quite the endorsement of her capablities."

Willas couldn't help but agree - his greatest fear in making this journey had been that the reports of Lady Sansa's abilities had been exaggerated, or worse, that they had been outright lies. He needed a wife, both to help weather the ever-worsening storm and to help secure the future of House Tyrell in Highgarden, but he would not marry some empty headed fool used by clever men as a figurehead.

Part of him desperately hoped the Lady Sansa lived up to her reputation. Part of him dreaded that it was impossible.

Winterfell was enormous, mayhaps made to seem even larger than it was by virtue of being the only thing not white in the whole vast landscape - white snow, white sky, white clouds of steam rising off the horses as they laboured through the snow. The castle loomed dark and intimidatingly solid atop its hill, and Willas longed for the sunshine and space of Highgarden.

This is important he reminded himself, this can protect us all.

"We can only hope," he said mildly, nudging his heels against Gardener's sides and glancing back to check that his mother was well - she loathed the cold, and was bundled up in layers and layers, more than any of the rest of them, and he could just about make out her face.

She smiled, cheeks and nose bright red, and he dipped his head in response.

"Oh look," Humfrey said. "A party come to meet us - I wonder is that your lady, Willas?"

There was a lady riding at the head of the column, and her hair was the bright red Mother had described to him, but she was still too far for him to make out much more than that and the surprisingly rich blue-grey colour of the mantle around her shoulders.

He had told Mother and Garlan that he didn't much care what she looked like, but he couldn't quite stamp down on a hope that she was at least pretty.


	2. Greetings

Her hair was full of snow and the fur edging her mantle was mostly white by the time they reached Lord Tyrell's party, and Sansa was sick with worry that he would not like the look of her - men had the luxury of turning down a woman based on her appearance, after all, and while Sansa was not so falsely modest as to pretend that she was not beautiful, she feared that she would not be to his liking.

Mayhaps she ought to have worn grey. Stark grey, not the blue-tinged slate she'd chosen for her mantle when Rickon had agreed to her suggestions that she ought to have a few new pieces made for Lord Tyrell's visit. It brought out the colour of her eyes, true, and didn't drain her the way true grey did, but what if it looked presumptuous? What if it looked arrogant, as though she were attempting to combine the Stark and Tully and Arryn colours all at once?

"Lord Tyrell!" she called as soon as they were close enough, pushing down her nerves and forcing her voice steady. "You are most welcome to the North, and to Winterfell!"

"It is an honour to be here, Lady Stark!" he called in return, raising a hand in greeting and, she thought, smiling. When they came closer still, she saw that she was right - he was quite like his brothers and sister, but there was more of his mother in his face than there had been in theirs. His beard was cut tight to his face and did little to disguise the clean line of his jaw, and his eyes were sharp and keen, the same honey-hazel as Margaery's had been. "The North is exactly as beautiful as my brother promised me - mayhaps more so," he added, taking her proferred hand and raising it to his lips. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my lady."

She hoped he would ascribe her flush to the cold, and dipped her head in acknowledgement. 

"And you, my lord," she assured him. "Please, my brother is awaiting your arrival, if you will come with me?"

He motioned for her to lead the way, and then rode alongside her back to Winterfell - he told her, when asked, that he had had a pleasant journey, and gave all the correct responses when she assured him that every preparation had been made for his and his party's stay at Winterfell. 

He maintained his measured smile right up until the time came for them to dismount - Rickon came forward and offered Sansa his hands, so she almost missed Lord Tyrell unbuckling his left leg from his saddle, but she could not have missed the way he dismounted backwards, swinging his right leg over his horse's neck and sliding down to land only on his right foot, taking heavy wooden crutches from a waiting servant and murmuring thanks.

_Margaery said he had a bad leg, but I never thought..._

"My apologies, Lord Stark," he said, his smile suddenly sharp and edged with ice. "My infirmity neccessitates rudeness on occassion - thank you for welcoming us into your home, my lord. It is an honour to be here."

"And an honour to host you, my lord," Rickon said, determinedly not looking at Lord Tyrell's crutches or the way his left leg rested half against the right, his foot hooked behind the opposite calf. "If it please you, you will be shown to your rooms where you can rest until the feast tonight."

"That would be most welcome, my lord," Lord Tyrell assured him, and Sansa was startled by the sudden appearance of a woman and a man at his sides. "My pardons, my lord - may I present my mother, the Lady Alerie, and my uncle, Ser Humfrey of House Hightower."

"You are most welcome to Winterfell," Rickon assured them, glancing quickly to Sansa to be sure he was doing right. "We can become acquainted later, when you have warmed up, mayhaps?"

 

* * *

 

"Gods be good," Humfrey laughed, throwing himself into one of the chairs clustered around the roaring fire in the outer chamber of Willas' rooms. "She's a beauty, isn't she? And she has the little lordling wrapped around her finger, whether he knows it or not."

"The Lord Commander seemed less eager to make us welcome than Lord Stark," Willas said, easing himself into the chair opposite Humfrey and leaning down to pull off his boot. "And Lady Arya didn't even pretend not to stare at my damned leg."

"Yes, well," Humfrey said, launching himself to his feet and pacing around the room. "She isn't the one you're here to charm, is she?"

No, she wasn't, but Willas had seen the ill-concealed shock in Lady Sansa's eyes when he'd reached for his crutches, and the discomfort in Lord Stark's when he saw just how malformed Wilas' leg was. No doubt they'd known he was a cripple - he couldn't imagine Margaery had left that out when proposing a match between himself and Lady Sansa all that time ago - but he knew now that they had assumed it was just a slight thing, a limp that pained him to the point where he couldn't ride into battle and nothing more.

Poor Lady Sansa. He wondered if she'd refuse him simply because of his leg, if she would believe, as most of the Reach seemed to, that his injury had left him impotent.

"I say!" Humfrey exclaimed suddenly. "The walls are warm!"

"There is a massive fire-"

"No, no, that's not what this is," Humfrey insisted. "Come feel it for yourself, Willas, I've never felt anything like it!"

Willas leaned over to the stretch of wall furthest from the hearth that he could reach without standing up. He was not expecting it to be blood-warm under his fingertips.

"Gods above," he said, jerking back. "What in the world causes  _that?"_

"You ought to ask your Lady Stark," Humfrey advised. "Doubtless she will be eager to brag about the home she did so much to restore, don't you think?"

 

* * *

 

"I've never known Sansa not to dance," Arya murmured, leaning on the arm of Jon's chair and trying to be surreptitious about watching Sansa and Lord Tyrell. "Doesn't it strike you as odd that she's not dancing?"

"She's speaking with Lord Tyrell," Jon pointed out. "It would be rude of her not to spend time with him given he's here on her invitation."

"Ask her to dance, Rickon," Arya said, leaning around Jon and pinching Rickon's arm. "She can't refuse you, ask her to dance with you."

"Arya-"

"Do as you're told," Arya insisted. "I'll be regent if Sansa does decide to marry him, remember, so you'd best get used to doing as I say."

Rickon grumbled, but he did as he was bid and rose from his seat, bowing to Sansa and offering her his hand - Arya slipped into Sansa's vacated seat as soon as she and Rickon reached the edge of the floor.

"Lady Arya," Lord Tyrell said mildly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I would like to better know the man who seeks my sister's hand, my lord," she said sweetly, leaning her chin in her hand and watching him as if fascinated. "What was it that drew you to my sister of all women, my lord? Rumour of her beauty?"

"Report of her intelligence," he said, shrugging. "Your sister is a remarkable woman, my lady, and it would be a great honour to have her as my wife - her being so beautiful as she is, that is an unexpected pleasure."

"You did not believe the talk of how pretty she is?"

"My sister was reputed to be the most beautiful woman in the realm prior to her death," he said wryly, shaking his head. "My sister was remarkably pretty, true enough, but I would not have said she was  _that_ beautiful. Rumour of beauty is almost always exaggerated, my lady, and so I was sceptical of your sister's reputation."

"And now?"

"Now," he said, watching Rickon and Sansa dance, "I can see that I was wrong to doubt. Still, if those rumours were true and the other blatant lies, I do not know if I would wish to wed her. I admire her very much for all she has achieved, and it is... Pleasing to know that she truly did achieve it herself."

"That is an unusual sentiment to have, my lord," Arya said, genuinely surprised. "Most men find her reputation threatening."

Lord Tyrell grinned.

"Most men, my lady, are not the friend of Princess Arianne Martell."

 

* * *

 

"Lady Alerie," Sansa said, still flushed and breathless from the dancing - she'd spun from Rickon's arms into those of half a dozen other men, Humfrey Hightower among them, and had had a time of it disengaging. "Is everything to your liking?"

"Everything is wonderful, Lady Sansa," she assured her, and Sansa wondered for a moment if Margaery's hair would have silvered as her mother's had, had she not died so young. "I merely wished to thank you on my son's behalf for the hospitality we have been shown, and the consideration shown to his infirmity in not rooming him high up in the keep. He would never admit it," Lady Alerie confided, "but I know that it is a relief for him to not have to climb many stairs."

"I am glad that we were able to accomodate him," Sansa said honestly, doubly glad that she and Rickon had agreed on settling Lord Tyrell in the finest chambers on the ground floor now that she knew how badly injured his leg had been. "And your own rooms? Are they suitable?"

"More than suitable," Lady Alerie promised, smiling brightly. "And so warm, too! I could not believe it when I was shown in!"

Sansa smiled a little - Lady Alerie had been placed in the warmest chambers in the keep, which had once been Sansa's mother's, where neither she nor Arya could bear to sleep - and allowed Lady Alerie to guide her back to the dais.

"The hot springs heat the entire castle," she explained. "Hot water runs through the stone, so it is never truly cold here."

"We did wonder, earlier," Ser Humfrey cut in, rising to pull out their chairs, "didn't we, Willas? What heated the walls?"

"Indeed we did," Lord Tyrell said, eyeing his uncle with something like annoyance. "I never thought of subterranean springs. How intriguing."

Sansa had been speaking with him the entire evening and had found it difficult to guage his sincerity about most things, and was almost certain he was being sarcastic now - the sharp look Lady Alerie sent him seemed to confirm that theory, too, which irked Sansa.

"Brandon the Builder is said to have raised Winterfell with giants and magic," she said archly, clasping her hands firmly in her lap and sitting straighter. "There is no castle in the world like it."

He blinked at her, one long, slow blink that implied a multitude and set her teeth on edge, and then subsided.

"Indeed," he said quietly. "I would be honoured if you would give me a tour in the morning, my lady - I would very much like to see more of your home, if it please you."

She felt wrongfooted, then, once more unsure of his sincerity, but had little choice but to agree.

"Nothing would please me more, my lord," she said, forcing a smile and hiding her relief when she saw Jon approaching. "Do you have need of me, Lord Commander?"

"If you have a moment, Lady Stark," he said, bowing slightly and stepping back to wait for her.

"Please, enjoy yourselves," she urged their guests, her smile slightly more genuine now. "And do let me know if there is anything you need or desire - we only wish to make your stay as comfortable as possible."

 

* * *

 

"I want to apologise," Jon said without preamble, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. "Rickon and I behaved poorly, and we treated you badly - can you forgive us?"

"You more easily than Rickon," Sansa sighed, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. "He  _knew_ how much I wanted- it is of no matter," she amended sharply. "It is forgiven, Jon, although I  _would_ advise you not to so much as attempt to interfere in my affairs again."

"I overstepped this time, and I admit that," Jon said, frowning, "but you are my sister-"

"No, Jon," she said. "You are Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. You cannot be that  _and_ our brother as you wish to be - you chose the Watch a long time ago, and you cannot take that back."

 

* * *

 

"You were very rude to Lady Sansa," she chided as soon as they were alone. "Why were you so sharp with her, Willas? She was being perfectly charming!"

"Because you were drawing attention to my leg!" Willas snapped, throwing his crutches away as soon as he was in one of the chairs by the fire. "As if I don't do that sufficiently on my own, Mother, without you adding to it by thanking her for giving me an easily accessible room!"

"While  _you_ may find admitting the need for help shameful,  _I_ am grateful to our hosts for being accomodating!" Alerie bit back, gathering his crutches and setting them against the wall, within his reach. "If she is to be your wife, Willas-"

"I know!" he snarled, and then looked horrified. "Gods, Mother, I'm sorry, but- I hate appearing so  _weak,_ especially given the state of the realm at present!"

"I know that, Willas," she said sternly, "but how do you expect this woman to wish to marry you if you mistreat her? I would have refused your father's suit had he spoken to  _me_ in such a manner, I know that."

He sighed and pitched forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped behind his neck, and she felt a touch sorry for him, then - he had never been much good with women, not if he had even the slightest interest in them, but this was not a woman he hoped to bed. This was a woman he hoped to  _wed,_ and who was deserving of a great deal of respect.

"In the morning," she said, "you will be respectful to Lady Sansa, and as charming as I know you are capable of being, and by tomorrow evening she will  _hopefully_ be better disposed to you than she probably is at present. Am I clear?"

"Mother-"

"Am I  _clear,_ Willas?"

 

* * *

 

"I was not expecting to find a sept so far north," Lord Tyrell said, sounding both surprised and oddly pleased by the revelation as Sansa stood back to allow him entry. "And such a beautiful building at that!"

"My lord father built it after his marriage to my lady mother," Sansa explained, heart twisting at the memory of sweet afternoons spent singing hymns and murmuring prayers here with Mother and Septa Mordane. "As a gift to her - she was quite devout. It was destroyed during the war, but it was one of the first buildings we fully restored, once the shipments of glass began to come regularly."

"Do you share her devotion, my lady?" he asked while examining the Father's altar, and then froze. "Forgive me, that was-"

"A reasonable question," Sansa said, waving aside his apologies with a smile. "I keep both my mother's gods and my father's, although my brother and sister keep only the old gods."

"Their loss, then," he said with a smile, looking up at the pretty stained glass window behind the statue of the Mother (modelled, although he could not know it, after Sansa's own mother). "That they should not have the use of such a lovely space, I mean."

"And my gain," Sansa said with a shrug. "There are few places in Winterfell so peaceful as the sept, if only because so few here keep the Seven." She paused a moment, just long enough to draw his attention, and smiled. "If you would like to see it, my lord, I might show you the godswood next? I don't imagine you've ever seen the like of it."

"Indeed not, my lady," he agreed. "Might I beg a moment, though, before we depart? It has been difficult to maintain my devotions on our journey from Highgarden, and I would take advantage of your beautiful sept, if I may."

"Of course," she said, surprised but not displeased, and he smiled his thanks and took a seat in the pew before... Before the Stranger's altar. How odd. Sansa could never remember seeing anyone pray to the Stranger except in the immediate aftermath of a death, and even then they often prayed to the Crone to guide the deceased.

She offered her own devotions while she waited for him, praying to the Warrior for strength and the Crone for guidance and the wisdom necessary to correctly handle their guests for the duration of their stay. 

"Lady Sansa?"

She raised her head and smiled, rising quickly and tugging her cloak closer around herself.

"Come, my lord," she said, gesturing for him to exit first. "While we walk to the godswood, you might tell me of  _your_ sept, mayhaps."

 

* * *

 

"I squired with my uncle, Ser Baelor, in Oldtown," he told her as they made their way towards the godswood, grateful that she was keeping an easy pace and for once not caring that she was likely doing it to accomodate him - the slick ground made it difficult, sometimes, to keep his balance, so the slower pace was very welcome. "As such, I spent a great deal of time in the Starry Sept."

"I have heard that it is remarkably beautiful," Lady Sansa said, her smile just a touch shy. He wondered why that was - she did not strike him as a woman who had the luxury of being shy - but chose not to comment. "The most beautiful sept in the realm."

"I have always thought so," he admitted, "although there are many who would have argued in favour of the Great Sept."

He regretted that as soon as the words left his mouth - what sort of fool was he, mentioning the place where her father had been murdered? Next he'd be talking about the sun on the river at the Twins!

"I would argue  _against_ the Great Sept, even if it still stood," she said quietly, that shy smile disappeared. "Fortunately for us all, I think, it does not. I never thought it was possible for a house of faith to be evil when I was a child, but the Great Sept proved me wrong."

Of course, not only had her father been executed on its steps but she had been forced into marrying the Imp within. Gods, what a fool he felt! He had felt a fool a great deal in her company since arriving, though, because she was so assured that he was never certain how she was reacting to anything he said, and it left him feeling off balance and awkward.

"I am anxious to see how your godswood compares to the Starry Sept, my lady," he said, forcing cheer into his tone. "I have never seen a weirwood before."

"Ours is particularly beautiful, I think," she said, leaning over to unlatch the gate and holding it open for him. "Although I fear I did not appreciate it fully until I was without it."

He was surprised to find that it was indeed quite beautiful - the air was sharp, snow-clean and heavy with the scent of the sentinel pines all around them, and he was amazed by the sheer number of bright splashes of winter blooms that peeked through the snow. 

"I was unaware that there are so many flowers that bloom in these conditions," he said, tilting up a big, lazy flower in a pretty shade of purple-red with the end of his crutch. "The gardens at home are comparitively subdued in the cold weather, I am afraid."

"I'm certain that they are still very beautiful," she assured him, a hint of amusement brightening her eyes. "I am sure Highgarden would not have been thusly named if it were incapable of living up to its reputation, my lord."

The laughter felt startled out of him, and stilled as soon as they entered the clearing that held the weirwood. The heart tree, he remembered, trying to take it all in and feeling somehow as though he had failed.

"My gods," he breathed, adjusting to the sheer scale of it - he had not expected it to be quite so  _large,_ but everything in Winterfell seemed slightly larger than life, from the castle itself to young Lord Stark.

"No, my lord," Lady Sansa said, motioning for him to follow her. " _My_ gods."

 

* * *

 

"I know not what to make of him," Sansa admitted, leaning her head on Rickon's shoulder and scratching between Shaggy's ears. "One moment he is perfectly charming, the next he says precisely the wrong thing and seems utterly mortified by it."

"He seems very taken with you," Arya said, lying atop Nymeria, half asleep. "He hardly spoke a word to anyone else all through the meal, and he watched you all the time while you were dancing."

"He  _is_ here to decide about marrying me," Sansa pointed out. "His being interested in speaking with me is hardly cause for remark, given the circumstances."

"I wonder if I ought to listen-"

"There will be no spying on anyone, Arya," Sansa said sharply. "If Lord Willas and I do decide to wed, I will not have that lingering over us - and besides, they are our _guests._ You will behave accordingly."

 

* * *

 

"You seem very taken with her," Alerie dared to say after Willas had dismissed the maester. "The Lady Sansa, I mean."

"She is... Quite remarkable," he admitted, biting his lip as he shifted on the bed and jostled his leg. "I wonder if it is possible that our reports underestimated her intelligence."

Alerie sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand and waiting until he looked her in the eye.

"Please, sweetling," she said softly. "Do you like her?"

He blushed, and Alerie had not felt relief like it in a very long time.

"I like her more than I thought I would," he said. "I think we could be comfortable together, if she is amenable to a match."

It upset Alerie more than she would ever have admitted to know that comfort was the best Willas would ever hope for in a marriage, but she supposed it was a step forward from how he had assumed that Lady Sansa would hate him not three moons ago.

"I suppose you had better put the question to her, then," she said, lifting her hand to his face and smiling, offering a prayer that he might have some happiness without pain to taint it.

 

* * *

 

"It seems only fair that I would ask you rather than your brother, my lady," he said, surprised by how calm he was - he had always supposed that he would be nervous when asking someone to marry him, but apparently not. "I would be honoured if you were to accept me, my lady, although I will not forgo the alliance with your brother if you do not."

Lady Sansa smiled over her shoulder, setting the book she had been glancing through back on the shelf, and turned to face him.

"It will be difficult for you and your family to blame me if the need arises to murder another Lannister king," she said, folding her hands together as she walked towards him.  _Our children are going to be very tall_ he thought absently, looking up to meet her eyes when she came to a stop beside his chair. "I ought to be safe enough, I think, as your wife."

"Lady Sansa-"

"I can understand why you did it," she assured him, leaning on the edge of the table and folding her arms over her chest. "Knowing what I do now, I cannot honestly say that I would not have done the same thing in your family's position. Know, however," she added, holding up one slender hand to forestall his objections, "that were certain members of your family still alive, I would never even  _dream_ of accepting your suit."

"I had nothing to do with that aspect of my family's plot," he said sharply. "As far as I was aware, Lord Tyrion was to take the blame and, hopefully, be executed for his crimes, by which point you would have been spirited to Highgarden, nominally for your own safety, and we would have been wed before the Lannisters could raise an objection."

"Hence why I  _am_ agreeing to wed you," she said lightly, "but only given your father and grandmother's absence."

He held her gaze for a long moment, fascinated by her forthrightness, and then nodded.

"Very well," he said. "I suppose we had best discuss arrangements then, my lady. Would you rather wed here or in Highgarden?"


	3. Nuptials

"You look very beautiful," Arya said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. Sansa's maids had done masterful work in the little time they'd had to make her gown, and Sansa's embroidery was as precise and delicate as ever, the silver direwolf shimmering on her maiden's cloak as Rickon swung it around her shoulders, looking far more nervous than Sansa did.

"Thank you," Sansa said earnestly, reaching around Rickon to take Arya's hand. "As do you, if you were curious."

Arya frowned down at the dark grey gown she'd worn as a concession to Sansa, which made her feel desperately conscious of her breasts and hips. She wished she was more Sansa's shape, tall and slender, like Mother had been but even taller, rather than smaller and fuller-figured, but Sansa had once said she wished she had fuller hips and breasts, more like Arya's own, so she wondered if anyone was ever truly happy with their body.

"Thank you," was all she said, shoving Rickon aside and taking the veil from the maid holding it out. "Sit down so I can reach to put this on you."

Sansa rolled her eyes but did as she was bid, clasping her hands together the way she always did when nervous. Arya stood behind her and pinned the heavy lacework in place, adjusting it so it fell properly over the length of Sansa's hair, and stood back.

"Perfect," she said. "Absolutely perfect."

Sansa stood and pullled her and Rickon both close, pressing kisses to their cheeks and fixing their hair, tears shining in her eyes.

_Rickon doesn't remember Mother at all,_ Arya realised suddenly, noticing how tight he was holding onto Sansa's hand.  _But he knows Sansa. Sansa made him who he is now._

"I am so  _proud_ of both of you," Sansa said, voice thick and nose scrunched. "Gods,  _so_ proud. Mother and Father would have been amazed by how well you've both done, how brave you both are."

She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and laughed a watery little giggle.

"I know that you don't remember them, Rickon," she said, reaching up and cupping his cheek, "but they loved you so much, and so do I. You are doing so brilliantly, and I know you will be wonderful without me."

Sansa's hands had always been soft, but her grip was firm when she took Arya's chin and lifted her face up.

"I am sorry that I was such a brat," she said, mischief turning up the corner of her mouth. "But I hope that I have made up for it since we were reunited."

"I thought so until you forced me into this dress," Arya teased, squeezing Sansa's wrist and smiling as wide as she could. "Now stop weeping, you can't go to your wedding with red eyes and a swollen face, can you?"

 

* * *

 

Sansa and Rickon were even more alike that Sansa and Robb had been, the same tall, slight build which was so elegant on Sansa but looked rangey and wild on Rickon, their hair just slightly redder than Robb's, their features just a little sharper.

Sansa looked anxious, but very lovely in all her white, Jon thought, glancing down when Arya slipped her hand into his. "Rickon is more nervous than she is," Arya whispered. "He's worried that he'll do something wrong."

Lord Tyrell had forgone his crutches for a thick rosewood cane with a gold handle, and he looked less impressed by Sansa than Jon would have liked - more curious than anything, as though he thought her a puzzle to be solved. 

Rickon spoke his piece well, his voice clear and even (and mercifully without skipping, as it was sometimes prone to do when he was anxious - it hadn't quite broken entirely yet), and he didn't fumble the cloak around Sansa's shoulders, either. Jon felt proud, and wondered for a moment if he had any right. Sansa's words still echoed in his head, the reminder that he had chosen the Watch many years before and should not have been involving himself in their affairs as much as he had done since Rickon had started sending him those letters.

Lord Tyrell's voice was twice as deep again as Rickon's, steady and clear and warm, and Sansa's smile was sincere as he swept the heavy green velvet around her shoulders.

_He planned on wedding her here,_ Jon realised in surprise.  _I wonder if she knew he would do so when she insisted Rickon invite him to visit._

Arya clapped a hand over her eyes when Sansa's veil slipped, coming loose entirely on one side and sliding halfways down her hair on the other, but Sansa only laughed and reached back to tug it loose, folding it over her right arm and linking her left with Lord Tyrell's.

"I put the veil in her hair," Arya groaned as they followed on to the sept. "Of  _course_ it came loose, but I wanted to help her prepare somehow."

"She didn't seem to mind," Jon pointed out, although he was just as surprised as Arya by that. "Worse things might have happened."

"The cripple might have fallen on his face," Sigorn grumbled, just loud enough for Jon to hear - he and Alys being present was a sort of proof that Sansa had anticipated Lord Tyrell's plans, because their journey was near as long as Jon's own. "He is stronger than I did think of him."

Alys shushed her husband - likely because she didn't want her brother to overhear, because Harrion had, by all reports, set himself entirely against Sansa for some unfathomable reason - and rolled her eyes, patting his hand. 

"Hush, husband," she whispered, "you know Sansa has delicate sensibilities."

Alys' friendship with Sansa had surprised Jon, because he had thought that she and Arya would be the ones to get along well. They did as well, but Alys and Sansa had become near as close as himself and Sam seemingly overnight, and he hadn't quite known what to make of it.

"Mayhaps his luck comes from her hair," Sigorn teased, and Jon coughed to hide his laughter - Sansa had never liked talk of her supposedly lucky hair. "They are married now, in name if not in deed, mayhaps he now shares in her luck."

 

* * *

 

Alerie was relieved when the sun broke through the clouds, shattering through the pretty windows in the little sept as Willas and Lady Sansa said their vows. She wished Garlan could have been present to witness this, to see Willas findin someone he could at least tolerate the thought of as his wife.

Lady Sansa looked particularly lovely - the green of her marriage cloak, the same one Mace had wrapped around Alerie's own shoulders, that Garlan had draped around Leonette, was a beautiful foil for her hair, and she and Willas made a very handsome couple.

"They suit one another very well, don't they?" she whispered to Humfrey as Willas leaned in to kiss Lady Sansa, to seal their vows. "They're so tall, so very lovely beside one another."

"Provided she really is as intelligent as she seems and isn't just a very talented actress, they may actually find some measure of happiness in one another," Humfrey agreed, grinning over at Willas as he led Lady Sansa down the aisle and out the door. "I do hope he'll take his crutches now, though, or else he'll be in too much pain to ride for a week."

"You know as well as I do that he won't," Alerie said, sparing a smile for Lady Arya and the Lord Commander. "His pride won't allow it today of all days."

"Strangely enough, I think his standing without them for the ceremonies has earned him a certain amount of respect among his new goodfamily."

 

* * *

 

"Have they everything they need?" Rickon demanded, fretting to do this without Sansa's hand on his elbow. "Are they comfortable? Should I have sent for more musicians? Should they be playing something different?"

"Our guests are perfectly comfortable, Lord Stark," Maester Lorcan said firmly, not even trying to hide his smile. "Lady Sansa- that is, Lady Tyrell will have no cause to be disappointed in the festivities. She will be immensely proud of how yourself and Lady Arya handled yourselves, my lord."

Rickon bit his lip, glancing back out at the dancefloor where Sansa was dancing with Lord Tyrell's uncle. She had seemed surprised by some things - the confections Arya had arranged for the cooks to make, the tumblers and jesters Rickon had called for (those at least had been planned for the Tyrells' departure, and it had been a simple matter of sending word for them to hurry along, but it had made Sansa smile so wide that the effort had been more than worth it). 

"Are you certain, maester?" he said, fiddling with the loose end of his belt. "Can you think of anything I ought to do-"

"Lord Karstark is going to dance with her," the maester said. "I would cut in, if I were you, my lord."

Harrion Karstark was not going to dance with Sansa - by the time Rickon had wrestled his way through the dancers, Karstark was grabbing at Sansa, calling for the bedding, laughing and slapping away Ser Humfrey's disapproving hands and tugging at the heavy green cloak.

He stopped when Rickon's fist collided with his jaw.

"If you  _ever_ lay a hand on my sister again, I will see you dead," he snarled, boot slamming into the bastard's gut and throwing him back across the floor. "You are  _nothing_  to her, do you understand? If you even  _look_ wrong at her-"

"Rickon," Sansa said sharply, wrapping her arms tight around his waist and holding on, even when he struggled to get away. "Rickon,  _calm yourself!"_

Sansa released him, and he sucked on his knuckles. It helped with the sting as much as it helped to calm him, just as it had since he was small.

"Leave," he said around his fist. "You are never to stand in Winterfell again while my sister is in residence, Lord Karstark."

"I-"

" _Leave_ ," Rickon snarled, and he was once more thankful for all those fantastic rumours about what he had done before Davos Seaworth found him on Skagos, because something that could only be fear flashed in Harrion Karstark's eyes as he stumbled to his feet.

Then, cringing, Rickon turned to Sansa.

"I am sorry, Lady Tyrell," he said sheepishly. "How might I make this right?"

 

* * *

 

Willas blinked, startled, when he hobbled into his bedchamber.

"I do not remember it looking like this," he said, shaking his head. "It seems your brother is full of surprises, my lady."

She seemed as surprised as he was, reaching behind herself to push the door closed, wide-eyed and flush-cheeked.  _How very pretty she is when she smiles like that,_ he thought, settling down on the edge of the bed.

"Rose petals," she said, huffing a laugh. "Oh, Rickon."

"Appropriate, I think, given my House and yours," Willas admitted, lifting one blue petal between his fingers and laughing. "It's difficult to grow blue roses in Highgarden - our one great failure. We don't have the cold."

She hummed in agreement or interest or something, and when he looked up she had already removed the cloak and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. Her hair had been styled simply, and he watched in fascination as she unpinned it and combed her fingers through it.

"Your hair is so beautiful," he said softly, watching closely even as he bent to pull off his boots  _oh gods it hurts it hurts_. "Red hair is rare in the Reach."

She looked back over her shoulder, smiled and then turned fully.

"Thank you," she said softly. "Could you help me with this, my lord?" she asked, gesturing behind herself to the laces of her gown. "They're easier if you can see them."

He was surprised to find that the faint scent of rosemary that had been lingering all day was from her hair, and even more surprised by how warm she was, the heat of her skin emanating through the heavy damask of her gown. 

The laces were simple, and when she stood up to slide it off he took the chance to pull off his doublet and shirt.

Her shift was all lace, white and delicate and pretty enough to compliment her lovely face. The hem was woven through with deep green ribbon, the same green ribbon as her stockings were tied with.

"Do you need your crutches, my lord?" she asked quietly, and he wondered if she had imagined him differently, if she were disappointed in his frailty. 

"I can manage well enough, my lady" he said, swining his good leg up onto the bed and then reaching back to lift the bad, one hand under his thigh and the other around his calf. "I have ample practice," he assured her, balancing on his elbows and lifting his hips to get them down his thighs. "I prefer not to rely on help for things like this."

When he reached for the blankets, she had them tucked under her arms and was quite clearly as naked as he was himself. He wondered if she thought him handsome, or if she could only see his leg.

He tucked the blankets around his waist, turning to look at her when she touched his cheek, just the tips of her fingers rubbing featherlight through his beard. 

He could taste summerwine, sweet and fruity and a gift that he had thought to bring because it was expensive to ship all the way north and he thought that they would appreciate it, on her lips. 

She slid closer under the covers, her knee pressing to his thigh, and settled her hand on his shoulder... And flinched when he slipped a hand under the covers to the curve of her waist.

_My gods,_ he thought, dipping his head to nuzzle into her neck, kiss the sheen of sweat from her skin,  _she is a maid._

She froze under his hands, his mouth, and pushed away from him, so indignant that she didn't even seem to notice that she was naked in his lap, her breasts bare (and pretty, gods, was there anything about her that wasn't pretty).

"You  _didn't_ believe me," she said. "I- Why does  _no one_ believe me?!"


	4. Travels

They would have reached Highgarden within three moons had Lord Tully not left word at Lord Harroway's Town that they were invited to visit at Riverrun, an invitation they could not rightly refuse without causing insult.

Willas wished more than anything that Lord Tully had not done so, if only because the weather seemed to be worsening and travelling was increasingly painful for him, but he said nothing because Sansa had brightened at the prospect of seeing her uncle.

She had been very quiet since they'd crossed the river at the Twins.

Then again, he had to admit that she'd been very quiet since the morning after their wedding - as polite and charming as ever, but more reserved and much,  _much_ cooler. He hadn't meant to say what he had, hadn't meant to hurt her feelings, but given all that had happened her during the war, it  _was_ a surprise that she had been a maiden still.

He had tried to make it up to her physically since, because he had no idea what to say to make it right. He could think of a thousand things to say, and not one of them made even the tiniest shred of sense, not one of them would, to his knowledge, make any difference to her.

She did seem to enjoy those night they spent in actual beds, which was a small mercy - he did not think he could have borne it had she been reluctant to share a bed with him, but he was coming to learn what she liked and did not like, and that was something, he supposed. He just wished he could learn what pleased her outside their bedchamber as easily.

Mother seemed to adore her - they were entirely at ease in one another's company, and Willas found himself painfully jealous of that, because he seemed to do nothing but put his foot in his mouth while speaking with Sansa. Even Humfrey seemed to find it easier to converse with her than Willas himself did, and he was half miserable because of it. _When I am in better health,_ Willas told himself,  _then I will be better able to handle her._

And she did require handling, in odd ways - she was remarkably self-sufficient, but seemed ill at ease without something to be done, without something to keep her occupied during every waking moment. She was too clever for her own good, or else she had fallen into the habit of industry and would have a difficult time breaking that habit.

Willas was quite capable of ruling the Reach on his own, and Sansa would have ample time to find hobbies other than politics.

But then again, didn't that defeat the purpose in all his hunting for a capable wife? Wouldn't that render all his insistences that he wanted an intelligent woman mere posturing? Grandmother had ruled Highgarden through sheer bloody-mindedness and Grandfather's disinterest, and Mother had always been Father's greatest ally. Would it be such a terrible thing for him to lean on his wife as Father had on Mother?

Mayhaps if he spoke to her more as an equal, as he would speak to Garlan or even to Arianne. It was worth considering. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted Riverrun on the horizon.

“Not much further, my lord,” she said brightly, and she saw her relief mirrored in her husband's bright, tired eyes. They were, she'd discovered, a lighter shade than his sister's had been, and he was even better at keeping them blank than Margaery had been. “I'm sure my uncle and his lady wife will have every conceivable comfort prepared in anticipation of our arrival.”

“I do hope so, my lady,” he said earnestly, pulling his cloak closer around himself. “I truly do.”

It was still strange to think of him as her _husband_ \- Sansa had spent years longing for marriage now, in truth her whole life, because even after the Lannisters gave her to Tyrion she had wanted what her mother and father had shared more than anything except to have her family returned to her.

Once, she reminded herself, she had dreamed of marrying Willas Tyrell, had whispered his name into her pillow and thought of how she might make him love her. Now, she was Lady Tyrell, and while she had no doubt that she and her husband would be comfortable together once he got over his peculiar nervousness of her, she did not much mind that he would likely never love her as her father had loved her mother.

He was suffering a great deal, whether from the cold or the effort of travelling, she did not know. She had wondered privately why he did not travel in a wheelhouse until she happened across him tending his horse, Gardener, himself, after which it had been clear that he rode as much for his horse's sake as for the sake of his pride – she had never known a horse to be so fond of its rider as Gardener was of Willas, a feeling which was clearly mutual.

“ _I raised him from he was a foal,”_ he had explained. _“By hand, for a long while – his mother was a sweet old thing, and she died during the delivery. He was such a lovely horse that I couldn't bear for him to die, so I nursed him along. We've been together ever since.”_

Apparently, something Lady Alerie had mentioned but Willas had neglected to note, Gardener had been born in the wake of Willas' accident, when he had been so sunk in depression that he had not spoken a word in three moons and could barely move for the pain. He had started recovering twice as quickly after claiming Gardener, and had trained Gardener himself to ensure the horse would be suitable for him to ride once his leg healed sufficiently.

“Have you ever met my lord uncle, my lord?” she asked, just for something to say – she knew he had not, Edmure would have mentioned something in his reply to the letter she had sent him to tell him of her likely impending marriage if he had.

“No, my lady, although I have heard many tales of his bravery,” Willas said, smiling a little. “My brother told me that Lord Tully is a demon in battle – or rather the opposite, I suppose, considering Garlan only ever saw him fight those true demons at the Wall.”

Sansa winced to remember the men, living and dead and undead, who had returned from the fighting at the Wall, come to Winterfell for healing and funeral rites and prey, and tried to remember Garlan Tyrell coming through their doors. _He must have been uninjured,_ she thought, _I only ever seem to remember the injured and the dead._

“I am told you and your brother resemble him greatly?”

“Rickon more than myself,” she said, forcing a smile. “But that is to be assumed, I suppose – I favour my late mother very much, I am told, although I am unfortunately taller than her.”

“Why unfortunately, my lady? Your height is part of what makes you so striking, after all.”

Sansa could not help but pull a face at that – she hated being quite so tall, taller than every woman she had ever met aside from Brienne of Tarth, and taller than many men, particularly in the North – which made Willas laugh. He had a pleasant laugh, warm and bright like his eyes, and she could not help but grin in return.

“Flattered though I am, my lord,” she told him, “it does sometimes present a problem when dressmakers refuse to believe me without measuring me for themselves – which, given that most of mine and my sister's dresses and cloaks came from White Harbour on order, meant that I spent a great deal of time adding decorative borders to my gowns so they did not end halfways to my knees.”

“My brother has a similar problem,” Willas admitted, shaking his head. “His height is not an issue, but often the tailors present him with clothes that, while long enough, are not near wide enough for the breadth of his shoulders, and so they end up far too short – Mother! Do you remember the doublet Garlan had made for Leonette's father's funeral? The one that only came to here?” he called over his shoulder, gesturing to a point about level with his navel.

Lady Alerie snorted aloud in amusment, rolling her eyes.

“If he'd just let the man measure him instead of _insisting_ that you needed him for something, he would not have had that problem,” she said firmly, slapping Ser Humfrey's arm as his laughter bubbled fully past his lips. _Willas laughs like him,_ Sansa thought idly, nudging her own horse back into line – poor Whisper was of a shy temperament, and had startled at the noise Lady Alerie had made.

A scout rode directly to Willas and touched his arm, demanding his attention, so Sansa pretended to turn hers to Lady Alerie and Ser Humfrey's teasing argument and in truth listened in on Willas' conversation.

“Men flying the Frey banner,” he said sharply, dissolving all levity, and straightened up in the saddle. “Potentially hostile forces nearing from the north!” he called to the guardsmen scattered liberally amongst the servants and attendants and the rest of their party. “We will increase our pace and hope to reach Riverrun before they have an opportunity to intercept us!”

Sansa's throat felt tight at the thought of Freys _oathbreakers murderers how could you do that to Robb look what you did to my mother_ but, she knew, there were few enough of them left – the Brotherhood Without Banners had seen to many of them, the war at the Wall to more and Uncle Edmure to more still – and even fewer who would fly their banner.

“It is likely that it is Lord Frey,” she pointed out, although she could not be sure. True, Lord Olyvar could not have known that Edmure and Lady Tully had invited herself and her new goodfamily to Riverrun before she did, but considering the depth of the snow and the floods that were so frequent in the Riverlands with the icy rains that sometimes broke the snowfall, surely he would have stayed on the roads rather than chancing the dangerous cross-country ride? That would leave him some days behind them, even if Edmure had sent a raven immediately after receiving Sansa's acceptance of his invitation to invite Lord Frey to join the festivities. “I'm sure it must be Lord Frey.”

“Or Red Walder,” Ser Humfrey pointed out. “He might be a half-Lannister, but he's not fool enough to attack the Lord of Highgarden.”

Willas' cheeks, previously flushed with the cold.

“Under orders from his king,” he said, “he is _precisely_ fool enough to attack the Lord of Highgarden. Come! We ride hard for Riverrun!”

 

* * *

 

Edmure was pleased, if a little confused, by how urgently Sansa and her companions rode through the gates – pleased to see Sansa more than anything, but pleased none the less.

“Someone flying the Frey banner,” she explained, slipping her arms tight around his waist when he scooped her into a hug. “My lord husband feared Red Walder, under orders from Lord Lannister.”

“Lord Tully,” Lord Tyrell said in greeting, leaning on heavy crutches _so he is a cripple, then_ and bowing as best they allowed. “Lord Lannister – that is, King Jaime,” he corrected himself, rolling his eyes in clear disdain, “has made several threatening overtures towards House Tyrell, and the Frey banner would pass unquestioned in much of the Riverlands, especially since Lord Frey himself was absolved of all wrongdoing – it is a clever ruse, and for all that the Kingslayer is no diplomat, no man could ever fault his battle savvy.”

“Lord Tyrell,” Edmure returned, setting Sansa back on her feet and gesturing for them all to accompany him inside out of the just-starting snow. “I will send men to investigate – while he flies that banner, Ser Walder is subject to me, not to the Kingslayer, and he will answer any questions I ask or suffer the consequences, whatever they may be.”

He was surprised, although he knew he ought not to be, that Sansa's new husband was about his own age, mayhaps a little younger – it was hard to tell with that beard. Sansa seemed not to mind, though, so Edmure shrugged it off and stepped aside to allow Lord Tyrell unhindered passage into the keep.

“While I arrange for that,” he said, lifting Sansa's hand to his mouth and kissing it, winking at her when she stuck out her tongue, “my steward will show you to your chambers – there are hot baths waiting for you all, and we are entirely at your disposal should you have need of anything.”

Lord Tyrell was frowning at the woman with the grey hair – his mother? - but sighed when she raised an eyebrow.

“I wonder, Lord Tully, if I might trouble your maester for his assistance,” he said, looking peeved to have to admit to such a thing. “It has been a very trying journey.”

Edmure did not mind in the slightest, and sent a boy off to fetch old Vyman to Lord Tyrell's rooms before heading off himself to search first for Roslin and then for Uncle Brynden, wherever he might be.

With Roslin, as it turned out.

“My lady, ser uncle,” he said as he stepped into the nursery, bending to scoop Hoster onto his shoulders. “Sansa and her company are arrived, but there is a party flying the Frey banner not far behind them – I wonder, uncle, if you might take a small party of your own out to meet them and see what their business may be?”

“Of course, lad,” Brynden said, smiling in that way he had that meant he was favourably comparing Edmure to his father – a smile that usually appeared when Edmure asked him for something where his father would have ordered it – and heaving himself to his feet, shushing Bethany's protests with a sweet pulled from some pocket or other. “If they are hostile?”

Edmure said nothing, and Brynden nodded.

“I'm sure they're just representatives from Oly,” Roslin said, although Edmure could see that even she did not believe it. “Who else would they be?”

“Lord Tyrell fears your Lannister cousins,” Edmure said, setting Hoster down by Bethany and crouching at Roslin's feet, the better to get a look at little Cate. “I owe you my thanks, my lady, for agreeing to remain here while I greeted my niece-”

“I am doubly glad that I did so now,” she said gravely, shaking her head. “Lady Sansa and I get along poorly enough without my kin causing trouble for her new husband, after all.”

Edmure had learned to see past Roslin's kin during their confinement at Casterly Rock, something aided considerably by Bethany's birth, but he knew it would be harder for Sansa than it had been for him – Sansa, after all, had no particular need to get along with Roslin, and had made it perfectly clear more than once that she had no particular inclination, either. Roslin took the slight well enough, just as she took every slight, but Sansa's treatment of his wife had been the cause of most of their very few rows.

Rickon's and Arya's treatment of Roslin was best left unremembered and unspoken of.

 

* * *

 

"Tell me, Lord Tyrell," the maester said, steady hands pressing into the absolute most painful points on Willas' bad leg, "do you  _like_ having two full legs, or are you working towards forcing the maester at Highgarden to remove this one?"

"I am afraid," Willas gasped, trying not to laugh from sheer hysteria at the pain, "that wheelhouses are not the most efficient means of travel in this weather, maester."

"Unfortunately, my lord, I fear you may be right," the old man agreed, grinning as he pressed the heel of his hand into the side of Willas' kneecap, pushing at it until it clicked and he cried out in pain. "However, I may be able to ease some of the pain in the short term if you are willing to allow for another scar?"

Willas shifted slightly, turning out his leg as best he could to show off the long scar that ran along the side of his leg from halfways up his thigh to the middle of his calf.

"Maester Lomys has beaten you to it, I'm afraid," Willas said. "He said that the joint is malign because of the injury, and fluid builds up around it that needs to be drained - is that what you were planning?"

"Indeed it was, my lord," Maester Vyman said, reaching for his little bag. "It will only hurt for a short while, I promise you that."

 

* * *

 

"Lady Tully," Sansa said, dipping her head just a little  _I am her equal in rank and her superior in birth and blood_ and taking Roslin Frey's outstretched hands. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

Edmure's wife blushed - shame? Embarrassment? - and bowed her head lower than Sansa had.

"And you, Lady Tyrell," she said, so earnest Sansa felt embarrassed on her behalf. "It is an honour to host you and your new family here at Riverrun."

Sansa purposely did not look at Edmure, who was greeting Lady Alerie and Humfrey, and wished that she could have linked her arm through Willas' simply for something to do with her hands.

"You and my lord uncle are always such wonderful hosts, it is an honour to be your guests," Sansa insisted, pressing Roslin's hands as though they were the closest of friends, as though it were not a challenge to tolerate her company. "I have always enjoyed my time at Riverrun."

Not entirely true, of course, considering much of the time she had spent at Riverrun had been during the war, after Petyr's death and before Lord Manderly had sent for her, sent her word of Rickon's survival and sent her men to escort her to White Harbour. Still, she  _had_ enjoyed meeting and getting to know Edmure, who was sweet in the most unexpected sort of way, and little Bethany was a lovely girl - she had reminded Sansa of Arya a little, and she had been a comfort while Sansa still thought Arya lost.

Lady Roslin had known to stay as far away from Sansa as Riverrun allowed, as often as was possible.

Sansa was excused from making any more small talk with Lady Roslin by the doors of the great hall being thrown open, banging back against the walls to reveal a troop of wet, mucky soldiers, Brynden leading them with none other than Red Walder Frey bound before him.


	5. Interlude: Kings and Queens

Rickon read the document Lord Manderly had laid on his desk a third time, hardly daring to believe that it could possibly be what he thought it was. Maester Lorcan stood to the right of his chair, hands tucked into his sleeves and brow furrowed - he was a young man to have forged a chain, with a thick head of bright yellow-blonde hair and the biggest hands Rickon had ever seen - as he read over Rickon's shoulder.

"This is madness," he said, shaking his head. "My lord, the balance of things is impossibly delicate now-"

"The balance of things is more stable than it has been in years," Lord Manderly said. "The Westerlands and the Iron Islands have already removed themselves from the King's governance, and there has been no retaliation - the people of the North want independence, Maester Lorcan, and Lord Stark is the only one in a position to give it to them."

Rickon traced his fingertips over the signatures at the bottom of the huge scroll, which detailed so many things Rickon's head was spinning - but he did notice that his bannermen wanted Sansa and her children removed from the succession, apparently because she had married into a loyalist family but, he knew, in truth it was because they disliked Sansa for being so... So southron. She had distrusted so many of them when she began asserting her authority as Rickon's regent in more than name, relying on Lord Manderly and Lady Mormont above all others, and that, too, had alienated many of them.

"I am not going to wed Maryn Thenn," Rickon said, tapping that particular clause in the... charter? Contract? Constitution? He had no idea what to call it, and wondering if Aelinor Mormont would mind terribly if he asked her mother if he could marry her. _Maybe I should just steal her instead,_ he thought idly,  _I'm sure she wouldn't mind, and if I can get through Lady Mormont and Aelinor's aunts then I'm surely worthy of her hand_. "And I am not entirely disinheriting my elder sister. I will place Arya ahead of Sansa in the succession until such a time as Arya marries, if she chooses to do so, but after that there is no reason for Sansa not to come before Arya."

Lord Manderly frowned at that - he and Sansa, despite getting along well on personal terms, seemed eternally at odds in recent years over political issues, particularly Winterfell's relationship with the King on Dragonstone - but Maester Lorcan smiled, clearly pleased that Rickon was looking after Sansa's interests. 

"And I do not know about this council," Rickon added, looking up to Maester Lorcan and pointing to the relevant paragraph. "It seems to me as if they will have a great deal more power than they need to have."

"I would be inclined to agree, my lord," Maester Lorcan said, reaching out for the heavy vellum. "May I? I see several clauses that may be cause for concern if only because of their wording, and I would like to investigate them more thoroughly."

"Once the good maester has looked through the proposals," Lord Manderly said, "would you be willing, my lord? Would you accept the crown?"

Rickon wondered what Sansa would say. She had always told him that it was in the North's best interests to remain loyal, to be part of the Seven Kingdoms under King Aegon's rule, if only because it was their best means of guaranteeing that their people would be fed through the long, lingering years of winter.  _Uncle Edmure would not let us starve,_ he thought,  _nor would Cousin Robert._

Robert Arryn was both the more likely of the two to let the North starve and in possession of more arable, more fertile land than their shared uncle was, and Rickon knew well that his cousin was brat enough to allow his and Rickon's dislike (ha, such a tame word for something so visceral - Rickon and Robert  _hated_ one another, but Sansa said it was cruel to hate anyone and so Rickon bit his tongue and did not use the word that caused her such distress. He sometimes wondered if Sansa hated it so much because there was someone she particularly hated and felt guilty because of) of one another to negate the loyalty they owed one another as blood kin.

"I will think on it," Rickon conceded, wishing desperately that Arya had not gone out hunting with Lya Mormont and Dara Tallhart, so that he might have at least one  _Stark_ here to advise him.

 

* * *

 

"And you are certain that my Northern cousin is signing the charter Lord Manderly is presenting him with?" Robert demanded, tugging his mantle closer around his shoulders and holding his viewing glass up to his eye. "You are certain that he will secceed?"

"Absolutely so, my lord," Lord Corbray insisted, face utterly serious. "We have had excellent reports that support that from our sources in the North, my lord, and there have been rumours of similar plans being made in Dorne."

Robert studied the charter, pondering certain clauses - the marriage clause, for one, he did not like, mostly because he was still too young to wed, in his opinion, and because he feared so much passing his illness on to any children he might father that he had considered, more than once, simply allowing Harry to remain as his heir.

Had  _Sansa_ still been in the North, Robert would have had more faith in this grand unspoken promise of alliance between the North and the Vale, but there was only Rickon and his bannermen, and Robert hated Rickon. He was wild and rough and uncouth and found pleasure in violence, and he had been cruel in how he had teased Robert during the time they had been forced to spend together.

He was also tall and strong and handsome, despite being over two years Robert's junior, and he placed higher in Sansa's affections, which seemed unfair to Robert for reasons he could not quite explain.

"We will be independent of the Targaryen king?"

"Indeed we will, Lord Arryn," Lord Royce boomed, folding his arms and nodding emphatically. "If he even truly  _is_ a Targaryen."

Everyone had been willing enough to believe in Aegon Targaryen's legitimacy when he had been keeping the Baratheons and Lannisters from the throne, as well as his mad dragon-taming aunt (Robert had near wept with relief when he heard that she had died at the Wall, athough Sansa, who had shared the news with him, had wept tears of sorrow, lamenting Daenerys Targaryen as a hero, as a  _friend,_ something that had confounded him), but now the Lannisters were hiding in their Rock and the Targaryen King was to wed the last Baratheon, and suddenly people were beginning to wonder how it could be that a son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell's could be hidden away for nigh twenty years without  _anyone_ having heard so much as a whisper of his survival.

"We border the Crownlands, where his hold is strongest," Robert pointed out. "Will that present a problem?"

Yohn Royce's grin was wicked and razor-edged. 

"He ought to have held onto one of his aunt's dragons if he wanted to keep us in check, my lord," he said.

 

* * *

 

Aegon rubbed his hands roughly over his face and sighed, flinging aside the most recent draft of his and Shireen's marriage contract. 

"Gods above," he said tiredly, "I wish she'd just agree to elope and be done with it, rather than treating the whole thing like-"

"An affair of state?" the Eunuch offered lightly, gathering up the contract and smiling. "It rather is, Your Grace, loathe though you are to admit it. Lady Baratheon seems to understand that better than you."

Aegon grunted, waved a dismissal and, when Varys closed the door behind him, slumped deep into his chair.  _It was never supposed to be like this._

He was supposed to return to the Seven Kingdoms with the Golden Company at his back, sweeping through the realm in a wave of victory, only truly needing to fight those who had actively defied his father's family during the Rebellion - and even then, not all of them, not once he had soundly beaten the Baratheons and Lannisters.

He was not supposed to find a realm plagued by so many wars it was hardly a realm at all. There was not supposed to be an apocalypse looming to the north. Aegon himself had not been supposed to bring the source of a damned  _plague_ into the country in the form of Jon Connington and his blasted greyscale.

He was  _supposed_ to sit the throne of his ancestors, but there wasn't even a damned capital city for him to rule from, thanks to Cersei Lannister's madness and the wildfire his grandfather had seeded around the whole of King's Landing.

He was certainly not supposed to meet the scion of the House that overthrew his own and come to admire her so much that he wanted to  _marry_ her, but Shireen Baratheon seemed to have spent the past decade surprising everyone she met.

"Shireen and I have already agreed on everything," Aegon grumbled, knowing Rolly would ignore his whinging and therefore feeling free to continue. "And yet Varys advises me to re-examine every clause a thousand times. He seems to think that there's some chance of holding the realm together as a whole."

"You believe otherwise?"

"He withholds information from me," Aegon said, "but I hear enough. The North, the Vale,  _Dorne,_ all of them are on the verge of declaring independence. My uncle is all that is keeping Dorne loyal, and it is not as loyal as I would like. He let his son marry the Kingslayer's bastard daughter, Rolly!"

"And they have a very pretty daughter of their own," Rolly said mildly. "Things are what they are, Your Grace, and there is little we can do to change them."

Aegon barked a laugh at that - as though he did not know how untrue that could be, he who should have been dead! - and jumped to his feet, striding across to the window that faced roughly south-west, roughly towards Storm's End.

"I really do wish she'd just bloody elope," he sighed. "At least that would be one thing entirely under our control."

 

* * *

 

"I am quite content, Edric," Shireen said firmly, arranging her hair to disguise her ears and frowning back to Edric, who was making a nuisance of himself by poking through her jewel casket. "The contract is nearly completed, and when it is, Aegon will come and we will be wed. You will accompany us back to Dragonstone as a member of the Kingsguard, and Devan will remain here as my castellan. Mine and Aegon's eldest child, regardless of their sex, will inherit Dragonstone and the throne upon Aegon's death, our second Storm's End upon my ow death. I remain paramount of the Stormlands, he of the Crownlands, and we are of equal standing as King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"There are not seven kingdoms left for you to rule," Edric pointed out. "The Five Kingdoms, mayhaps."

Shireen wondered when Edric had become as much a pedant as her lord father had been, and watched him pick tiny pieces of fluff from his tunic just as she had seen Renly do a hundred times when she was a child. All he needed was a wench on his knee and he might have been all three brothers Baratheon at once.

"Regardless," she said coldly, "you must stop badgering me - this is done, Edric, and your being unhappy with it is not going to change that. I  _am_ going to marry Aegon,  _cousin."_

"I am merely concerned that you are only doing so,  _cousin,_ because you wish to fulfill you lord father's legacy and rule unchallenged as queen where he could not as king."

She ignored him - he had learned a deep dislike of her father since his death, something Shireen did not entirely understand, but it had made him prone to making bitter little comments about her father that made her grind her teeth - until she could be certain that her voice would be level.

"You may leave, ser," she said, "unless you can keep a civil tongue in your head when speaking about my lord father, gods rest his soul, and accord him the respect his memory deserves." 

To her surprise, Edric  _did_ leave, stamping out of her chamber and slamming the door behind him. 

Mayhaps it ought not have surprised her quite so much as it did - Edric could still be awfully childish, absurdly so for his age, for everything they had come through this past long time. 

"He wants Storm's End, my lady," Devan said from his silent corner - speaking was difficult for him, thanks to the blackened frost-burns on his throat, injuries taken while trying to save her father's life, and so he spoke ony very little and even then only in front of certain people. "He believes that he has more right to it even than you, because he spent his childhood here - I have spoken with some of the servants who were here while your uncle was lord, and by all reports Edric was raised as heir in all but name."

"He could well have been my lord uncle's heir, had Renly managed not to marry," she said thoughtfully. "I would have been my father's heir, Joffrey would have sat the Iron Throne, and my father once said that he thought Tywin Lannister would have taken Tommen as his heir over the Imp."

"He would make a poor lord," Devan said gravely. "He is too much his father, I think."

"That is no bad thing in the eyes of many of my bannermen," Shireen said, remembering how Lord Selmy and Lord Dondarrion in particular had seemed charmed by Edric and barely tolerant of her. "Why do you thiink Aegon agreed so readily to raise him to the Kingsguard?"

 

* * *

 

The funeral had been a sombre affair, the people lining the streets to pay their respects to the Prince who, despite his reclusivity, they had loved very much. Plenty were old enough to remember him returning from the Free Cities with his beautiful foreign wife, the celebrations of each of his three children's births, and all at least knew about the peace he had kept for them even while the rest of the realm dissolved into war, even if they did not remember it personally.

"He is at peace now," someone - Lord Fowler, Arianne saw distantly - said, patting her hand and moving on.

"He is with our father now," Tyene murmured, the smallest hint of a smile teasing at the side of her lips. "Hardly  _peaceful."_

Arianne was inclined to agree, but she could not help but hope death had mellowed her uncle somewhat.

Daemon appeared through the crowds, jaw set in that way of his.

"Your Highness, my lady," he said, bowing just enough to avoid insult, although not so low as he ought.  _Not yet, my sweet,_ Arianne thought,  _not quite yet._

First, before anything else, she had to accord her father the proper respects - observe a suitable period of mourning at the very least - but then, many things would change.

"Ser Daemon," Arianne said, taking his proferred arm and letting him guide her away.

Soon, he would be the one to whom people would bow and scrape and say  _Your Highness,_ and Arianne knew how fine he would look in his circlet.

And when he was  _Your Highness,_ she would be  _Your Majesty._

First, though, Father. She took Trystane's hand as she passed him, smiling when little Ariella reached down to touch her face from where she sat on Trys' shoulders. Later, independence.

 

* * *

 

Jaime blinked in absolute surprise.

_"Tommen_ started this fight?" 

Addam shrugged, looking far too amused for Jaime's liking.

"Prince Tommen has no temper at all, Your Grace," he said, grinning as though it were the funniest thing in the world, "unless someone dares insult his mother's memory."

"He- even so, he could have  _killed_ them! Why were they sparring with live steel in the first place? Tommen knows better than that, surely, you and I taught him better than that before we even reached the Rock!"

"Tommen was forced to mature a great deal in a very short time," Addam said, smile fading away. "Unfortunately for all of us, he matured into  _you._ That means all your foolhardiness and recklessness and outright stupidity is coming out in him, and because he has no king to kill as an outlet, he's becoming angry and violent - speak with him, Jaime. If nothing else, remind him that he's not so alone as he thinks."

"He has-"

"Cousins and lads his own age, yes, but he'd rather have his father."

Jaime buried his face in his hands - he'd legitimised Tommen and Myrcella immediately after being crowned, and still considered it one of the very few true advantages of his new station, even if Myrcella found him repulsive and Tommen had become distant and...

"Someone made some mention of his being born under the circumstances he was, didn't they? It wasn't  _just_ about Cersei, was it?"

"Myrcella as well," Addam agreed. "Tommen weathers insults to himself better than any man I've ever known, but he won't stand to hear a bad word against Myrcella even more than Cersei."

Jaime looked up at Addam, forcing himself calm.

"What strikes me as the most surprising thing of all, my lord Hand," he said, "is that you seem to have been present for the  _entire_ fight, including whatever it was that baited Tommen into losing his temper. And yet it never occcurred to you to stop it from happening?"

"It did the boys good," Addam said. "They've been waiting on the verge of being sent to war for as long as they can remember - a good scrap won't do them a bit of harm."

"Tommen nearly took that Crakehall idiot's arm off! The boy will be lucky to keep anything beyond his shoulder!"

"And if he does he'll remember to better put on his armour once he's healed," Addam said, waving it off as nothing. "Tommen earned a great deal of respect today, Jaime - the Crakehall boy is built like Strongboar, but Tommen's proved himself able to handle a sword like  _you."_

Jaime groaned and buried his face in his arms.

"Why couldn't he have done it without  _crippling_ someone? We have enough enemies on the outside without turning our own men against us!"

 

* * *

 

"My, my," Asha said, flicking idly through one of their uncle's many books as she rounded the corner. "Aren't  _you_ looking well, little brother."

Theon looked up, startled and jumpy, but he settled once he realised who it was. Then he smiled - a small, close-lipped smile, but the best he ever gave nowadays, even to their mother.

"Hello, sister," he said quietly, motioning for her to sit with him. "It is good to see you."

It was excellent to see Theon looking so well - even his hands, what was left of them, were not the knobbly, spidery wrecks they had been for so long. 

"It has been too long," Asha agreed, sitting opposite him and carefully taking his pen and papers away from him. "Affairs of state are keeping me well occupied, I am afraid."

Theon smiled again and motioned towards the gently-steaming tea pot sitting on a heating cage, a gift their nuncle had received from Lord Manderly in return for helping make peace between Winterfell and Pyke, and held out a cup.

"Tea?" he offered, and she accepted, enjoying the quiet with him - quiet was rare now, her days filled with the noise of ruling her people, and she enjoyed coming to visit all that was left of her family, because they were all very good at peace. "Uncle Rodrick brought it back from Oldtown, he said that it is from the Summer Isles."

"He always did like everything about adventure aside from going on one," Asha said wryly, earning another of Theon's small smiles. "Oh! It's sweet!"

"What brings you here, sister?" he asked. "Not to Harlaw, Uncle Rodrick has been expecting you for some time - but here, to me. Are you well? Is Jeyne well?"

"Jeyne is very well," Asha assured him, setting aside her tea and reaching out for his hands. "She is here with me, in fact, you will see her at dinner - we are both well. I have news that might interest you."

"Oh?"

"Sansa Stark is after marrying," she said, hoping that he would like this news. He generally liked to hear about the people he had loved as brothers and sisters, but sometimes news of them upset him. "She is Lady of Highgarden now."

Theon blinked slowly, and then frowned.

"I would like to congratulate her," he said, "but I do not know if she would welcome a letter from me - if you are writing to her at Highgarden, might I add a note to your letter?"

He smiled one last time.

"Sansa will make a wonderful wife to Lord Tyrell," he said earnestly. "She would have made a wonderful queen."


	6. Truths

Red Walder Frey, son of Genna Lannister and Emmon Frey, was a tall, skinny man, who would have been quite good-looking if not for a remarkably weak chin.

"Chinless Walder, they ought to have called him," Brynden grumbled, shaking his head, and Edmure saw the young man blush - mayhaps that was where his nickname had come from, not the red of his mother's sigil or the reddish tinge in his fair hair. "Tell us, lad, what brings an exile like you into Lord Tully's lands?"

"I am of House Frey, ser," the boy said, sitting straighter on the bench in the cell. "Lord Tully is my liege."

"And yet you, presumably at your mother's order, have remained in the Westerlands since returning from the Wall, near six years previous," Edmure observed. He smiled to see surprise on Red Walder's face. "I keep a keen eye on my goodfamily, ser - for my lady wife's peace of mind, of course."

He looked surprised once more at the mention of Roslin, and it felt odd to Edmure to think of this man as Roslin's nephew - but then, he knew that it must feel odd to some to think of Sansa, Arya and Rickon as his nieces and nephew, and even more so to think of Robert as such. 

At least Sansa and Rickon looked like him, and Arya had his temperament and much of his manner - he and Robert had nothing at all in common save the shape of their cheekbones, as far as Edmure could discern.

"We ask again - what are you doing in the Riverlands?"

Red Walder met Edmure's gaze fearlessly, for all that he was blushing to match his name and more.

"I am of House Frey, my lord," he said, "and you are my liege. The Riverlands are my home as much as yours."

Lord Tyrell was sitting behind Edmure and Brynden, and he snorted in plain derision at that. Edmure was completely unsure what to make of Sansa's husband, but it  _had_ seemed as though Red Walder's party were in pursuit of the Tyrells, and the animosity between House Tyrell and House Lannister had resulted in numerous skirmishes along the border of the Reach and the Westerlands since the war and the seccession of the West.

"That does not explain your business here, Ser Walder," Edmure said patiently, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow. "And I would point out that by order of His Grace King Aegon, the sixth of his name, any supporters of the usurper Jaime Lannister are guilty of high treason.  _You_ are guilty of high treason, ser, and in entering loyalist lands you have forfeited your life."

Red Walder's red face was abruptly white.

"I have every right to be in the Riverlands," he said desperately. "Please, my lord, I do, I have every right-"

"Were you pursuing Lord Tyrell and his party, ser?" Brynden pressed, hands on his hips, leaning forward towards Red Walder. Edmure wondered if he would look so intimidating at his uncle's age, and privately hoped not - little Hoster was half afraid of Brynden, and Edmure would never wish for anything that might frighten his children (or grandchildren, he supposed, considering his own age relative to his uncle's). "Lord Lannister's feelings towards House Tyrell are well known, before you protest that such a thing is ludicrous - were you to detain Lord Tyrell? Kill him?"

"No!" Red Walder insisted, colour flooding his face once more. "No, ser, I swear it, we only carried weapons at all in case of bandits or other aggressors, I swear it on the Seven, ser, on my mother's ghost, I swear it!"

Edmure was surprised when a noise drew him to look over his shoulder, only to find Lord Tyrell heaving himself to his feet - his crutches were very practical, plain clear varnished oak, but they were also edged with gold and the grips and rests, were they sat under his arms, were padded in deep green leather - and moving to stand with him and Brynden.

"If not to pursue my family and I," he said, "including my wife, Lord Tully's niece, then why? Has the Kingslayer turned to peace in his old age?"

Red Walder's face faded into purple, and his eyes went sharp in pure hatred.

"I don't have to answer questions from a turncloak traitor like  _you_ ," he snarled, and then, stunning Edmure, he spat at Lord Tyrell's feet.

Edmure wasn't sure what he felt when Lord Tyrell's right crutch cracked wickedly across Red Walder's jaw.

 

* * *

 

Sansa looked from her uncle to her husband in pure shock, wondering if this were some elaborate jape that had failed to be amusing.

"You struck an unarmed prisoner."

Willas' gaze was cool, utterly unconcerned by how  _wrong_ such an action was. Mayhaps they held to different moral standards in the Reach  _abandoning an innocent girl to take the blame for a murder they themselves committed_ than elsewhere, but surely they did not hold with something that, by Edmure's report, was one step from what could easily be labelled as  _torture?!_

"It served its purpose," he said evenly. "He was disrespectful, and was punished for that, and he revealed the information that Lord Tully and Ser Brynden sought. I do not see that I am guilty of any wrongdoing."

"You broke his cheekbone and his nose, my lord!" Edmure said, clearly as appalled as Sansa herself. "He was  _unarmed,_ a prisoner in my dungeons!"

Sansa could not help but think that Lannister prisoners were unlucky in Tully captivity - she remembered the beating Joffrey had ordered when two Lannister cousins of his had been murdered by Alys Thenn's father during the first war.

"And he will heal," Willas said, shrugging. "I do not understand the fuss, my lord, there is no lasting harm done, thanks to your maester's admirable skill, and you now know that Ser Walder is here under orders from Lord Lannister to present you with peace terms."

"He would have told us that as soon as you left, and there would have been no need to resort to  _brutality!"_ Edmure shouted, making Sansa jump - it was a rare thing for her uncle to lose his temper, in her experience. "You lost control of your temper, Lord Tyrell, because Ser Walder insulted your vanity or your pride, I do not much care which, and that is poor excuse for beating a man who had no opportunity to defend himself."

Willas' cheeks were pink above his beard, but he seemed otherwise to be entirely calm and in control of himself.

"Very well, Lord Tully," he said, tone cool. "I apologise for mistreating your prisoner and overstepping my bounds."

"Oh," Edmure said, blinking in surprise. "I accept your apology-"

A knock on the door interrupted Edmure, and he called for whoever it was to enter.

"Be warned, lad," Ser Humfrey said, just his head poking around the door. "Someone's told Alerie you threw a tantrum, and now she's throwing one of her own."

Willas went white.

"Oh,  _shit."_

* * *

 

"It is remarkable, how terrifying parents can be," Edmure Tully said sagely, clasping Willas' wrist as they made their farewells. "Consider the incident with Ser Walder forgotten, my lord, and know that you and Lady Sansa both will always find a welcome in Riverrun for as long as my banner flies above the walls."

"And you and Lady Roslin in Highgarden, my lord," Willas offered sincerely, because aside from the minor hiccup of his outburst with Walder Frey the who-knew-what-number, he had gotten along better with Sansa's uncle than he had dared hope - better than he had gotten on with her brothers or her sister, certainly - and that was of itself a victory. Willas had only a small number of friends, because while he could be charming when he needed to be, he often found people exhausting.

Edmure Tully, though, was  _excellent_ company.

"Not too soon, though," Sansa chided, mischief in her smile, as she brought Whisper in close. "I must acquaint myself with the place first, uncle, else I shall prove a terrible hostess indeed, I fear."

Sansa leaned down and kissed her uncle's cheek, rolling her eyes when he tugged on the end of her long braid when she sat straight in the saddle.

"Safe journey!" Lord Tully called out as they cleared the gates, and Sansa turned to wave back at him - Willas only raised his hand, preserving his leg for as long as was possible before he would have to strain it. 

They rode in silence for a time - well, Mother and Humfrey bickered good-naturedly, just as they always did, but Willas settled on watching Sansa. 

She was an interesting woman, his wife. He had discovered that in their week-long stay at Riverrun, when they had the comfort to sit and talk to one another in the evenings, between dinner with Lord and Lady Tully and readying themselves for bed. She was just as clever as he'd dared hope, although not quite so politically astute as her reputation suggested - there was a sweet sort of naievety in her perception of people as a whole, an unquenchable desire to look for the best in even the worst people.

He learned that she sometimes wrote to Asha Greyjoy to enquire after her brother's health, despite Theon Greyjoy being the source of many of the North's pains, in the eyes of a great many people (many who would rather blame an outsider than one of their own, even when it was Roose Bolton who had been the true evil, him and his mad bastard, even Willas, who had never set foot in the North until he'd ridden north to fetch Sansa to Highgarden, knew that).

He learned that she was like to pitch a fit over her bathwater being the wrong temperature, or a specific dish at dinner not being prepared to her satisfaction, and that compassionate and sweet-natured as she was she was also vain to a fault and near as arrogant as that in unexpected ways.

 

He learned that she enjoyed music and needlework and just about anything beautiful, and was delighted in her enthusiastic response when he offered to introduce her to the wonders of horticulture when they reached Highgarden, her joy when he offered to teach her to play the dulcimer, an instrument she had heard  _of_ but had never  _heard,_ much less played herself.

He learned that she felt silly and frivolous for loving beautiful things, and tried to supress that part of herself in all but its most subtle manifestations, such as the pretty ribbons she wore to tie her hair (and her stockings, too).

He also learned that she hated House Frey, and  _all_ its members, more than anyone else still living, and hated that she hated them.

An interesting woman indeed, if only because she was a study in contradictions. 

At least he had learned to speak to her without making a fool of himself when he was speaking with her - he had figured out what he was doing wrong, at least most of the time, and had corrected it as best he could, and it had worked to a large extent.

"My lord?" she called gently, breaking his reverie. "Are you well?"

"Quite well, my lady," he assured her, a little confused. "Why do you ask?"

"You've been very quiet," she said, shrugging daintily. She does just about everything daintily, even losing her temper, and it is precisely that sort of delicacy that he had thought would be boring - instead, it is amusing, for some strange reason. Mayhaps because he had assumed it would be paired with slow wits, he does not know. "We could call a halt for a short time, if you need it, my lord."

"No, my lady, no, I am well enough," he promised her. "More than well enough to continue on - the longer I am fit to ride, the sooner we might be home, after all, and I have been away for quite long enough as it is, I fear - my poor brother has had to rule the Reach for longer than he ever supposed to."

"I look forward to seeing Ser Garlan and Lady Leonette again," Sansa said thoughtfully. "They were very kind to me during our time together in King's Landing, I remember."

Willas wondered what Sansa would say if she knew that Garlan had been the one to poison Joffrey Baratheon's wine, and decided against telling her. Best she blamed the dead for the danger she had been put in - she would not need to get along with them as she would with Garlan.

"I do not think he was expecting me to actually go through with wedding you at Winterfell," he admitted. "He told me, before we departed Highgarden, that it was a very out of character thing for me to do, in his learned opinion."

"And what did you say to that, my lord?"

"That he could hardly talk, considering he and Leo only did not elope because they were caught before they could depart Cider Hall," he confided, unable to stop himself from grinning. "I never remember my lord father ever being so surprised - that sensible, reliable Garlan could do such a thing! It was very nearly a scandal, and likely would have been were Garlan not so popular."

Sansa laughed - laughter removed all the lingering traces of melancholy from her pretty face and left her looking more her own age and less his, so he liked it very much when she laughed - and covered her mouth with one long-fingered hand.

"You jape, surely," she said, the stern furrow of her brow belied by her smile. " _Eloping?_ I cannot believe that of Lady Leonette."

"You have clearly never had to live in close quarters with Gargoyle and Leo," he said archly, smiling in return. "Even just seeing them away from court will help you understand - they've been wed over a decade now, and they're still sickeningly in love."

Her face fell just a little then, and he wondered what he had said to upset her. He wondered if it were possible for them to have a conversation  _without_ his upsetting her.

 

* * *

 

They stayed at an inn for the first time since leaving Riverrun two weeks into their journey, and when Sansa saw the relief on Willas' face she almost wept on his behalf - she had watched helplessly as he had spiralled deeper and deeper into pain, unable to do anything other than endure and keep moving.

She heard him crying out in pain not long later, while she was in the bath and his man was helping him do what best he could to ease the pain in his leg, and she wished that there was something she could do to help. At best she would be able to stay on her own side of the bed during the night - it was a small inn, so they had no choice but to share a bedchamber - and try not to roll about too much, lest she jostle him.

She did not truly mind sharing a bed with him - since her return to Winterfell, she had shared a bed with one or both her siblings more often than not. Rickon had grown too big to sneak in beside her during the night some time ago, but she and Arya had taken to sharing a room if only because it gave them a chance to speak with one another without Rickon or anyone else listening in, a rare luxury.

She had grown so used to sleeping beside someone else, to waking with Arya's arm thrown over her back or her head tucked against her shoulder or her hand linked with her own, that the nights she spent alone now were strange, and she found it difficult to sleep.

"My lady," he greeted breathlessly when she emerged from behind the screen, dressed in heavy woollen nightgown and a long robe of deep blue silk. "A moment, please, and then we may eat."

"Of course, my lord," she said, glancing at his leg - unbound from the supportive bandages he usually wore at all times, she noted, and reddened and swollen and  _painful_ looking - and then settling at the small table in the corner where the innkeep had reluctantly agreed to serve their meals. "Are you feeling better after your bath, my lord?"

"Much," he assured her, and he nodded so emphatically that she chose to believe him. "It seems the cruellest of japes that riding is the only exercise left to me aside from swimming, and one of those things still within my capabilites that causes me the most pain."

He left his leg unbound while they ate, stretched out towards the fire and balanced on a pair of thick pillows, one under his heel and the other between his thigh and the chair, and Sansa could not help but notice the scar that ran half the length of his inner leg, the scar that looked alarmingly fresh.

"It is from a treatment that I need unfortunately regularly," he explained when he caught her looking. "At this point, I hardly notice that it is there, and if I do it is only to be thankful that there is a possibility of some relief. The worse scars are on the outside of my leg, where the bones broke the skin - I will show you after we eat."

Sansa had only seen his leg bound before now, and found herself oddly curious to see the injury that causes him such unhappiness and pain.

 

* * *

 

He watched carefully as she examined his leg, alert to any sign of displeasure - Aldwin was standing at the ready with fresh bandages, ready to hide away the unsightly mess the moment Sansa expressed even the faintest hint of disgust, as she surely would - but she seemed only curious and concerned.

"Does it pain you constantly?" she asked matter-of-factly, running her fingertips over his flushed skin. "Or is it something that comes and goes?"

"Near constantly," he admitted, "although the level of pain varies - it is bad today, but it will not be so bad tomorrow because I have been able to soak it in hot water and rest in a proper bed."

She nodded, leaning this way and that to survey it.

"Have you considered a brace?"

"The swelling disallows anything that will not give at least a little," he explained. "I tried one, for a time, but it worsened the pain."

"Hmm," was all she said in response. "You were never advised to have it removed and replace it with a false limb?"

 

* * *

 

Apparently, suggesting to Willas Tyrell that he might be better off with a false leg was a surefire way of ensuring he spoke to you only when absolutely necessary.

Sansa was surprised by how much she missed their conversations, particularly those in the evenings while he tended to his leg and she brushed her hair. 

He was being childish - had Rickon behaved like this, or Sweetrobin, she would have scolded them into behaving, and likely forced them to apologise whether they liked it or not, but Willas was five-and-thirty and far too old for his mother to do such a thing, regardless of how much she clearly wanted to do so.

Part of her wanted to lock him in a room with her until he admitted that he was overreacting, until he realised that she had meant no harm, until he apologised for treating her so disrespectfully, but she knew that that would be just as childish as his refusing to speak with her. Instead, she was cool and almost, but not quite, sharp with him.

She also kept her Secret.

She would not be able to keep it much longer, of course - as far as she could work out, she had a few more weeks, the rest of the way to Highgarden if she was lucky - but she would keep it for now, for as long as she might, just to spite him.

At night, when he lay asleep beside her (because they slept in an inn every night now, and because the thawing snow this far south had encouraged a mad rush of industry, every inn was full to the point where Lady Alerie and Ser Humfrey had to share a room, never mind Lord and Lady Tyrell, newlyweds who  _of course_ would want to share a bedchamber, for whom every innkeep and his wife seemed to have some piece of advice about marriage and the marriage bed), Sansa liked to curl her hands over her belly, still mostly flat, and wonder what her babe might be like.

She forced herself not to remember her girlish fantasies of her life in Highgarden, and knew that her children would never bear Northern names.

But this babe, this tiny being that she already loved more than anyone in the whole world, he or she would be the happiest child in the world, even if his or her father was a brattish fool who had more pride than was good for any man.

(She really did dislike the advice about bedding - she thought she was managing quite well in that area, especially given her lack of any prior experience).

 

* * *

 

"Were you planning on telling me, or were you hoping I would realise on my own?"

Sansa looked up from her sewing, something dangerously close to a smirk lifting one corner of her mouth. 

"Neither," she said cheerfully, setting aside her hoop and standing, smoothing her nightgown over the tiny swell of her belly. "I was refraining from mentioning anything to you, my lord, until your behaviour improved."

Her smile - a full smile now - was sunny and absolutely triumphant, and he had a sudden, desperate desire to kiss her, which took him by surprise.

Instead, he held out on hand towards her, gestured towards her belly, and asked, "May I?"

Her face softened as she took his hand and curved it around her belly, around their  _child,_ and he sniffed to prevent himself from weeping.

"Thank you," he said fervently. " _Thank you."_

 

* * *

 

Sansa's stomach was swollen enough that she was forced to call a halt regularly to relieve herself (Lady Alerie assured her that this was entirely normal, but that she would send for both the maester and a midwife as soon as they arrived to set Sansa's mind at ease) by the time they finally reached Highgarden.

"Gods above," she breathed, "it's so beautiful."

It was very early morning, and there was little enough snow this far south that all that hid the lush grass was a layer of twinkling frost, right up to the gleaming walls of the castle, bright white against the murky morning sky.

"Welcome to Highgarden, my lady," Willas said, his smile blinding and quite nearly as beautiful as his home for its sheer rarity. "Your new home - I do hope you find it to your liking."

The persistence of that strange, lovely smile was proof enough that he had no doubt that she would like Highgarden  _very_ much.

 


	7. Plots

Willas' head ached when he awoke, and he burrowed under the pillows to escape the soft sunlight pouring through his windows.

"Pull the drapes and go away," he groaned, swearing when Aldwin only laughed.

"It would seem we overindulged a little last night, milord," he said, and Willas was so startled by the sudden chill of his blankets being torn away that he near rolled off the bed in pursuit of them. "Come along, you have council with Lord Garlan and Maester Lomys and the rest in an hour, milord, and you ought to see how Lady Tyrell is before you go."

He jerked upright then, scattering pillows everywhere, suddenly remembering Sansa and the babe.

"Is she well?" he demanded. "Did Maester Lomys check her over? Did anyone send for a midwife to examine her yet?"

 

* * *

 

Sansa watched the cold-handed woman through narrowed eyes as she washed her hands and forearms once more, this time, mercifully, in warm water.

"Is this entirely necessary?"

"It is for the good of your child, Lady Tyrell," the woman said firmly, settling at Sansa's feet and pushing her knees apart. "Come now, my lady, no need to be shy - you'll be glad of me to sit here in a few moons time, unless you'd rather Maester Lomys stick his hands up you to guide your babe into the world."

Sansa stared determinedly at the wall opposite until the woman was finished, not because it was painful or even particularly uncomfortable, but simply because it was so  _embarrassing._

"All seems to be in order, my lady," the midwife said cheerfully. "I will speak with the maester about a tonic for you, to bolster your strength, and I will return for another examination closer to your time - if you have any questions, I'm sure Marian will be able to answer them."

Marian was the maid Sansa had been assigned, apparently the wife of Willas' man, Aldwin. She was a kind-looking woman with steel-grey hair and dark, almost black, eyes, and Sansa liked her so far.

"I have seven of my own, Lady Tyrell, and ten grandchildren more than that" she offered, "there's not much about childbearing I don't know at this stage."

Sansa thought about bearing seven children, and she felt more than a little dizzy.

"I think I may try for a few less," she offered weakly, earning laughter from both women. 

 

* * *

 

"You can't be serious."

Garlan had spread the map out before Willas and, knowing his brother's appalling grasp of cartography, had carefully explained what the new markings meant - the heavy black lines dividing the realm into more parts than either of them had ever known, than anyone had known in over three hundred years.

"All of these," he said, circling the map and tapping his fingers to each of the new  _capitals,_ "they can't have secceded. They  _can't_ have, Garlan!"

"We've had declarations from your new goodbrother and his cousin both, and our sources in Dorne say that while Arianne has not declared her intent to secceed, she already has her consort chosen and their crowns forged - there are rumours that she's married him already in secret, and more rumours that she's with child."

"This is madness," Willas said, shaking his head. "The North will never survive without food coming in from outside, and they cannot possibly afford to buy in food to feed their people - they'll starve! The Iron Islands are only surviving on the strength of their alliance with  _us,_ for gods' sakes, and  _my new goodbrother_ made no mention of any such alliance while I was at Winterfell!"

"In Lord Stark - that is, King Rickon's defence, my lord," Maester Lomys spoke up, "I did get the impression that it was not  _his_ idea to reclaim the crown his brother wore, but rather his bannermen seizing the initiative - I sensed something similar in the missives from the Eyrie."

Willas' nose wrinkled at the thought of Robert Arryn, who had laughed openly and called him a useless cripple on the one occassion they had met.

"Has the King reacted to this?" he asked, pitying Aegon the creeping realisation that there was little he could  _do_ to react. If nothing else, the North, the Vale and Dorne were nigh invincible without dragons to aid an attack, something the King was sorely lacking. "Gods be good, how are  _we_ to react to this? My wife is kin to two pretenders, will Aegon still mark it treason to recognise them as kings?"

"I do not think he can at this stage," Garlan said. 

He was withholding something. Willas could see it as plain as the nose on his face.

"You're a rotten liar," he said. "What is it?"

"Since word of this has spread - and it has spread a great distance in your absence - there has been some... Some talk. Among the bannermen."

Willas' stomach turned.

"Are they  _mad?"_ he hissed, slamming his fist down on the table. "We share borders with the Crownlands and the Stormlands, vast, unwatchable borders - we could be decimated within a few moons! It would be impossibly easy for Aegon to promise independence to Asha Greyjoy and the Kingslayer in return for their aid in destroying us, and who knows what he might promise Edmure Tully if the Riverlands could be drawn into it!"

"You have a marital tie to House Tully now," Garlan pointed out. "And you said yourself that Lord Tully is as fond of your wife as Baelor is of you. He will not raise arms against her."

Willas still felt sick at the thought of his bannermen crowning him by assembly -  _what would happen to Sansa and the babe if it came to war and we lost?_ he thought desperately - and angry, too, that they should conspire to do so while he was away for half a year, while he was not present to talk them out of their  _foolishness._

"I will receive the bannermen in small groups," he decided. "No more than two or three at a time. I will... I will try to reason with them."

 _I do not want to be a king,_ he thought desperately,  _kings do not live to see their children grow._

 

* * *

 

"Foolish boys!" Sansa fumed, throwing aside the letters from Rickon and Sweetrobin, the better to pace with her hands fisted in her skirts. "They should have  _burned_ the charters rather than sign them!"

Willas' face was impassive.

"A loyalist, my lady?" he asked mildly, adjusting his leg and then sitting back. "An unusual stance for a Stark."

She scowled at him - so  _superior,_ as though the Tyrells had not proved themselves incapable of loyalty to anyone but themselves and their own interests during the war! - and looked down at the letters she'd thrown on the table. 

How could her boys be so  _foolish?_ She had warned Rickon, warned him that certain of his bannermen would chafe under so much authority, under the renewed yoke of authority from the south. He should have been  _prepared!_ Where had Arya been when he was presented with a charter from the bannermen, why had Maester Lorcan failed to prevent this?

 _Where was I?_ Sansa thought miserably.  _Was it selfish of me to press for a marriage? Should I have remained at Winterfell? Rickon needs me now, more than ever, and here I am... What am I doing? Rickon and Willas signed a formal alliance, as did Willas and Edmure, but is the alliance with Winterfell voided now? The North will die without support from the south, and Sweetrobin will never treat as fairly as he ought with Rickon, especially not now that he is not bound by Aegon's trade laws._

It surprised her less that Sweetrobin had done this. He had never outgrown the impossible arrogance and self-importance Lysa had coddled into him, and he would very much enjoy the honours accorded to even the weakest of kings. 

"A realist, my lord," she said bitterly, pushing back her hair with both hands just to hide how they were shaking. "My brother and sister could well die because of this - the North cannot grow enough food to support its people any more than it can afford to buy it in without the King's trade laws keeping prices low."

"We will still provide them with what food we can," Willas said, motioning for her to take the seat beside his. "Just as we do to the Iron Islands - we will draft a trade alliance, settle prices that will not cripple your brother's purse. Your uncle, I'm sure, will also do what he can to help. Your cousin? The Vale is near as fertile as the Reach, for all that they have less viable farmland."

"And our cousin hates Rickon, and hates Arya near as much," Sansa said, easing herself down with her hands around her belly. "He refused to speak with Rickon at all until a little over a year ago - I think he is jealous of Rickon for being healthy."

"We will cope, regardless," Willas said, leaning over to touch her belly, face softening as it only did when he was touching her bump or talking of the babe. "We will not see the North die, my lady - we will adapt."

"You  _are_ a loyalist, my lord," Sansa pointed out. "How can you reconcile that with supporting rebel kings and queens?"

"Politics are not always practical, Sansa," he said quietly  _that is the first time he has called me by name outside our bed_ , shaking his head. "There has been enough death - if a famine struck the Westerlands, I would rather set aside our fued with House Lannister than see the Kingslayer's people die when I could do something to prevent it."

 

* * *

 

Garlan sat on the arm of Willas' chair and watched their wives chat, the children running around after their puppies.

"I never thought I'd see the day," he murmured, leaning his elbow on Willas' shoulder and grinning. "A wife who has mananged to charm everyone in Highgarden  _except_ you, I expected, but I never thought you would be so foolish as to choose a wife who could charm  _you_ \- you mocked me enough for doing just that, after all."

"I am not  _charmed_ by my wife," Willas grumbled good-naturedly, lifting Meredith into his lap and, having made sure Leonette was not looking, popped a caramel into her mouth. Garlan lifted his daughter onto his own lap before Willas could feed her any more sweets, kissing her hair - curlier than his own, as curly as Leo's - as she settled into place. "I admire her."

"That's adult for love her," Meredith said stickily, with all the sage knowlede of her five years. "Do you love Lady Sansa, uncle?"

"Hush, Merry," Garlan chided. "You're being rude, sweetling."

Meredith pouted up at him, and then turned to Willas.

"I am sorry, uncle," she said, and Garlan rolled his eyes when Willas grinned and tucked a handful of sweets into the pocket of Meredith's gown.

"I am not offended in the slightest, little one," he promised her, stealing her back from Garlan, to her plain and almost offensive delight - Meredith had been Willas' special pet since the day she was born, and Garlan wondered how she would take being displaced in his affections by his and Sansa's child. "But I do not think I know my lady quite well enough to love her yet - do you like her, sweetling?"

"She's very pretty," Meredith confided. "And she sings beautifully, and she has very lovely hair."

"As lovely as Mama's or Grandmama's?" Garlan asked, laughing at the sudden terror on Meredith's face - terror at causing offence to any of the three women.

"Papa is being a brat," Willas told her firmly, and she nodded in agreement. "Be kind, Gargoyle,  _all_ the ladies have very lovely hair, don't they, Merry?"

"I think your papa is right," Mother said, suddenly appearing and sitting on the other arm of the chair, smiling just a  _little_ smugly when Meredith immediately held out her arms. "I think Uncle Willas does love Lady Sansa just a little."

Willas rolled his eyes again, surprising Garlan by not blushing at their teasing.

"Sansa and I get along very well," he said. "We are hardly some great romance about which songs will be written."

 

* * *

 

"Arianne has done it," Willas bit out, slamming the door behind him as he entered her solar to join her for the midday meal. "She has declared herself Queen of Dorne, married her bastard born lover, and denied King Aegon all authority over her realm."

"We knew this would happen," Sansa pointed out, trying for more comfort and failing miserably - near eight months a wife and eight months with child, and she was not entirely comfortable with either just now. "It should not come as any true surprise, my lord."

He sat down heavily, looking painfully tired, and shook his head.

"My bannermen have been... Discussing the possibilty that independence may suit the Reach," he said. "They would have me as their king, it would seem."

He looked up at her, and she did not know what to say in the face of the  _fear_ in his eyes.

"I was not born to be a king, Sansa," he said urgently. "I... I only wish to keep my people safe. I do not see..."

"You have already been behaving as their king," she pointed out gently, reaching over to take his hand. "You have signed treaties with every king and queen there is in the land - no doubt you already have Maester Lomys drafting a treaty to propose to Arianne Martell."

"Of course I do," he said indignantly. "Given the bad blood between the Reach and Dorne, it is the only sensible thing to do!"

"You see?" she said, squeezing his fingers. "It is not so surprising that they would want you as their king, Willas - by preserving them, you will only encourage them to have greater faith in you."

He looked down at their linked hands, and Sansa felt her cheeks grow warm - somehow, this felt more intimate than all the nights they had lain together, because this served no purpose other than to comfort him. 

"If I must be their king," he said at last, "at least I have ensured them a worthy queen."

 

* * *

 

Alerie smiled faintly as Leonette shooed the girls out of Sansa's bedchamber, shaking her head at them and scolding Merry.

"She asked if it was uncomfortable to be so fat," Leonette said, utterly exasperated. "I thought Sansa was going to weep, the poor thing."

Sansa had been confined to her bed for the past two weeks on her midwife's orders, since the false labour that had sent the whole of Highgarden into a panic. Whether it was that or the letters from her brother and sister that had left her off-kilter, Alerie didn't know, but her gooddaughter had been teary and delicate for days now.

"I will speak with her," she promised Leonette, stepping around her and into Sansa's room. "I am sure that there is no harm done."

Sansa's belly was huge on her slender frame, and Alerie almost wished that she truly had given birth a fortnight past - the babe looked to be enormous, as big as either of Alerie's eldest boys had been, and Sansa was so slight that it seemed almost inevitable that she would have a difficult time.

"How do you feel today, sweetling?" she asked gently, taking the seat at Sansa's bedside and reaching for her hand. "Merry does not understand, not truly, and-"

"I know, my lady," Sansa said, sounding... Frail. 

"Is there something wrong, Sansa?"

"The babe cracked one of my ribs with a kick during the night," she explained, rubbing her side with a rueful smile. "He is strong, it seems."

"Does Willas know?"

"I did not want to trouble him - besides, he is likely on his way home now, a raven would not find him."

With Willas away almost since Arianne Martell declared herself queen, poor Sansa had been left to handle all the stress of the late days of pregnancy alone, and Alerie could not help but pity her gooddaughter.

"He promised he would try to be home in time for the birth," Sansa said softly, stroking her belly, fresh tears in her tire-looking eyes. "But if he is not, at least I can be more assured than I was that our babe will be born healthy."

Alerie wondered, for a terrible moment, how Willas would react if he came home to a healthy son, but no wife.

 

* * *

 

"I walked straight into an  _ambush,"_ Willas said through gritted teeth, wiping rain from his eyes and pushing back the hood of his cloak. "I- I do not want to be king!"

"You won't have much choice if Lady Oakheart is right," Garlan said, tucking Willas' crutches under his arms. "Particularly not if the child your wife is carrying is a boy - you'll be the only paramount in the realm aside from Edmure Tully with a direct male heir."

"And if it's a boy, you'll have no means of preventing every lord and landed knight in the Reach from coming to Highgarden to celebrate," Garrett Flowers pointed out. "You may as well accept it, cousin, and prepare yourself for a slip in relations with the King on Dragonstone."

"One more treaty," Willas sighed. "Endless borders to guard, more potential for wars - what am I to do if Aegon refuses an alliance?"

Garlan looked at him in amusement, clapping him on the shoulder. 

"We will win, big brother," he said. "Just as we always do - we grow strong, remember?"

Willas rolled his eyes, wondering how Garlan could possibly find it in himself to jape about something so serious, and wondering as well why Sansa had not come with Mother and Leo to greet them. She was not due for another week, nearly two, after all - was she ill? 

Had something happened to the babe?

"She is perfectly fine," Mother assured him - was he so transparent that his worries were obvious enough for her to comfort him before he even said so much as  _hello_? - motioning for him to follow her inside. "They both are, sweetling, mother and son alike."

His stomach lurched, and he near lost his balance, but then he was off as quickly as he could manage, dashing towards Sansa's rooms  _to see my son my son my son._

 

* * *

 

Sansa held Leyton closer as they entered the hall at Willas' side - he was only using one crutch tonight, for some reason, and looked anxious - for the festivities celebrating his birth. He had been born barely a moon's turn ago, but every lord and lady in the Reach had determined to reach Highgarden to celebrate the new heir to House Tyrell (and soon to the throne, if Willas' fears about his bannermen's tenacity proved correct) as one.

"My lord?" she said softly, shifting her hold on Leyton so she could touch Willas' free hand. He smiled for her, leaned down to kiss Leyton's feathery mop of curls - redder than Willas', but darker than Sansa's - before turning to face their guests.

"They will not make their move tonight," he said quietly, "but they will soon. By the end of the week, mayhaps sooner."

She took his hand this time, linked her fingers through his, and smiled up at him.

"Even if they do make their move tonight," she said, "you are as prepared as you ever will be - you need not be so afraid, my lord. They trust you to rule them well. You might trust their judgement."


End file.
